George and Angelina: Finding Balance
by MandyinKC
Summary: Finding his way after the war was never going to be easy for George, but Angelina was there every meandering step of the way.
1. Chapter 1: One Month Later

Author's Note: Thank you to Project Team Beta for editing this for me. It's a one shot...most likely? Maybe? Probably? We'll see.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting. They belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

_one month later…_

"Percy said I would find you up here."

George looked up at Angelina, then back out over the meadow. He was sitting atop a small hill on the outskirts of the Burrow, but he was facing away from his home. Angelina dropped down beside him, resting her hands on her bended knee and said nothing further. What was there to say? What would he want to hear? Bloody hell, what a mess.

After a while, he said, "Where've you been?"

Angelina's eyes widened as she looked at George. His voice was bitter, almost accusatory. She hadn't expected that, and it hurt. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She didn't think tears would serve either one of them at this point.

"Where was I supposed to be?" she shot back, turning away from him.

"I don't know. I thought we were friends."

"We are. You and—" Angelina squinted and pushed ahead. "You and Fred are my oldest friends."

"Were."

"So, what, you're not my friend anymore, Georgie?"

George tore a clump of grass up, not looking at the woman who sat beside him. "If we were friends, you would have come sooner."

After a moment of silence, Angelina said, "I would have if I knew you wanted me. I didn't want to intrude on your family in their time of grief."

"_Time of grief_," he snorted. "Shite, you sound like Percy. So formal. Fred's fucking dead. I'm not grieving, I'm bleeding to death."

"Well," Angelina said, scooting away, "that sounds serious. Do try not to get any on my shoes, they're new."

George looked at her red, patent leather Mary Janes. They'd cost a bloody fortune and they were stiff as hell, but they were gorgeous. There had been a yellow pair as well, but Angelina had decided to go with red. It was her color.

First George snorted, then he outright laughed. Tears leaked down his face, and he wiped at them with the heels of his hands. Angelina sat quietly, waiting for whatever would come next. She'd grilled Percy before coming up here. She knew that George was prone to mood swings—usually rage to sorrow, according to his older brother. Angelina didn't care. She could roll with whatever George could dish out.

"Merlin's dick, Angelina, you and your shoes." George looked at her for a long time. "I haven't laughed since…" His voice trailed off. He turned his head so that he was staring at the horizon.

Finally, Angelina looked at her old friend. "Well, now you have, haven't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I have." He drew his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Thank you."

Angelina scooted closer. She wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder. They sat in silence, the wind ruffling their hair. Eventually, they lost track of time. It wasn't until the sun dipped low in the sky that Angelina realized how long they'd sat there and how stiff her limbs were.

"We ought to head back," Angelina said. She sat up and stretched her arms above her head. "Your family will begin to worry."

"They'll worry no matter where I am," George replied.

"Should they worry?" Angelina asked mildly.

George shrugged. "You know, Fred was in love with you."

"No, he wasn't."

"Alright, he wasn't, but he thought you had the hottest arse in Hogwarts."

"Him and everyone else. I _did_ have the hottest arse in Hogwarts."

"So humble."

Angelina smiled smugly. "What's there to be humble about, I ask you?" She bumped his shoulder with hers.

"Alright, Angie, tell me one thing. Did you really let Fred touch your tits at the Yule Ball?"

"Nice, Georgie," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "He tried, and I broke his fingers."

"I knew he was lying. Bastard."

"You want to know a secret, then?"

"One of yours? Absolutely."

"When I was in first and second year, I used to think I would marry you and then I'd get Fred as a kind of spare husband. Two for the price of one, as it were. Then I could keep both of you in my life forever."

George smiled sadly, pulling at the grass again. "We were going to marry the Patil twins," he said. "Because they'd get the twin thing, wouldn't they."

"Which one were you going to marry? Padma or Parvati?"

"It didn't matter."

Angelina laughed. "You two are despicable."

"Were."

"Were," Angelina echoed in a quiet voice.

"I don't think I want to marry one of the Patils anymore."

"Oh, Georgie, I think it's too soon to think about that."

"Lately, I try not to think at all if I don't have to."

Such hurt dripped from his words—it made Angelina's heart ache to hear it. She'd been friends with both Fred and George, of course, but it was always a bit easier with George. It was hard to admit now, but sometimes she hadn't really liked Fred. He could be mean and thoughtless, and he had had a ruthless streak that most had overlooked because he was the class clown. George, for anybody who cared to know _him_, was not at all his twin. Under the daring and brashness, there was a kindheartedness to George that Fred did not possess. Empathy came more naturally to George, as did helpfulness. On those dead rare occasions that George was alone, he could even be quiet.

But the twins were as similar as they were different. They were a seamless team on and off the pitch. They knew innately how to balance one another's strengths and weaknesses—it was what made them so inseparable and so unstoppable. As much as Angelina had enjoyed stolen moments with just George, she never imagined a world where just George existed. Finding out Fred was dead had torn her heart to shreds. First for her lost friend, then again for the brother he left behind. Angelina was never sure which one she hurt for more.

"Angie," George whispered. "Who am I?"

Angelina stiffened. His words—those dreadful words—echoed so clearly her thoughts that it felt like being hit with a Cruciatus curse. She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry.

"You were never the same person, Georgie," she whispered back, traitorous tears were escaping her eyes now.

"I-I do know that, but…I always thought we lived to balance out the other. I'm out of balance."

"Did you know how to balance on your broomstick the first time you flew it?"

George looked at her. "You want to talk about brooms?"

"Just answer the question."

"No, I fell arse over tits the first three times I ever mounted a broomstick. Happy?"

"But you learned to balance eventually, yeah?"

George stared at her for a long time, then cracked a smile. "If I wanted Quidditch metaphors I would have gone to Wood. Pathetic."

They sat in silence again. The sun was nearly to the horizon now and the spring air was turning chilly. Angelina cast a warming charm over George and herself.

"I threw away my D.A. Galleon," George said. "The day all the names of the D.A. dead were flashed. I mean, whose fucking idea was that? As if we weren't all depressed enough."

"I didn't know some of them," Angelina said, ignoring his anger for a moment. "They must have joined this last year."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe." He started rocking jerkily, as if he were having trouble sitting still. "I didn't know the first one: Louanne Abernathy. Fred was last. Fred Weasley. There were fifteen names between Louanne and Fred."

"George…"

"Anyway, I threw my coin away, and I did such a good job I can't even Summon it. Pretty dumb, huh?"

"What about Fred's Galleon?"

George shrugged. "What do I do now?"

The sun was slipping past the skyline. The whole sky was ablaze in pinks and golds. Angelina wondered if they were still speaking of the Galleon. She suspected they were not. The non-sequitors were a bit off-putting. When George was on his own he was usually on point. Angelina's stomach growled, making George snort with laughter.

"Well, there's your answer," Angelina said, laughing herself. "Feed me, Georgie, before I get grumpy."

George stood up and offered his hand to Angelina. Slipping her hand into his, Angelina let George pull her up. They stood very close to one another, his blue eyes staring into her brown. He took her other hand and just held them between their two bodies.

"I want to reopen the store," George admitted, looking down at their hands.

The first true smile of the afternoon came to Angelina's face. She was so happy to hear George speak of moving forward. Frankly, she had been afraid he would become stuck in this place where he mourned for his twin and what they had. Angelina was afraid she would lose both of her friends.

"I think that's bloody brilliant," she told him.

"I don't know how."

"Of course you do!" Angelina blurted out, startled by his admission. "You've done it once before."

"But with Fred. I don't know how to do it alone."

Angelina stared at George's bowed head. "What is this about 'alone,' then? Quite aside from your massive and mental family, you have me."

He squeezed her hands, whispering, "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Quidditch season is over, and I won't start up training again for a few months so, you can have me every day, if you want me."

"I do. I do want you. If you can put up with me."

"I think I can manage." She pulled one of her hands from his and stuck it in her pocket. She fished around for a bit until she produced what she was looking for. "In fact, Georgie Porgie, I have a Galleon that says the old Triple W opens in a month."

In Angelina's hand, glinting in the last rays of sunlight, was her D.A. Galleon. On 31 August of last year, knowing students were headed back to a Hogwarts run by Death Eaters, she'd fished it out of her jewelry box just in case. She'd carried it every day, feeling it heat, reading its messages, and feeling helpless. The war was over, but she still carried it.

George smiled, the barest of devilment glinting in his eye. "You're on, Angie Wangie. My money's on three weeks. Seal it with a kiss?"

Angelina pushed his head away, laughing at his exaggerated pucker. "In your dreams, Weasley."

* * *

A/N2: I have another story that I am just now submitting to PTB. Editing can be a lengthy process, but look for something new from me soon.


	2. Chapter 2: Tattoo

Author's Note 1: I have a lot to cover here, so let's get started. Thank you as always to my beta, **Leafia**. Also, I want to recognize (and thank) **Belfast Docks**, whose story _**Threshold**_, about Ron getting a tattoo, inspired this story. Also, **Northumbrian**. I borrowed the idea of the twins giving Angelina a birthday card from his story, _**April Fool**_, but his card was much more clever than mine. Go check out both of these writers, you won't be sorry!

Disclaimer: The characters and setting belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

Tattoo

George had been holding it together pretty well, if he did say so himself. Sure, his twin—his other half—was dead. Absolutely, his soul had been torn in two like one of those effing Horcruxes Harry told him about. Yeah, his chest was hollow and his laughter tinny and sometimes he didn't know if he was hacked off or super hacked off at the world. But he'd been holding it together.

Ten months. That was how long it had taken before he completely lost his mind.

It started out the night of ickle Ronnikin's birthday. The kid wasn't much of a kid anymore, being 19 and half-giant and getting laid on a regular basis. They had done the family thing early in the evening, where they all went 'round to the Burrow to let Mum feed them and coo over the birthday boy. After, Harry, Ron and George ditched the old folks and headed to Diagon Alley for a good, old-fashioned, merry-making drunk. Sometime in the night, George had looked through hazy eyes at his baby brother and realized that, shit, his own birthday was a month away.

_His_ birthday. His twenty-first. His first without Fred.

Just like that, all of that heroic holding-it-together George had done had come undone. Drinking became a daily habit. A week in, drinking to excess became a daily habit. He avoided his friends, especially Angelina. Then, when the alcohol hadn't been enough, he started fucking random witches. That wasn't a nice way to put it, but it was accurate. He couldn't call what he was doing with these women anything else because he didn't care about them in any way. He just wanted the release. And, Merlin, all of it just made him more miserable in the morning.

One night, before George could escape the flat of the girl he'd just got off with, she _spoke _to him. It was exactly as awful as George had imagined it would be.

"I remember you and your brother. We were in the same year at Hogwarts. I was in Ravenclaw."

George grunted, going very still in hopes of becoming nonexistent.

"Had a bit of a crush on the two of you," she said. "I was sorry to hear he died. Dead shame."

She snuggled into him and George made a mental note to create a one-night stand potion that rendered the drinker invisible after orgasm.

"I always wondered," she said.

George braced himself. Whatever came next would be dreadful, he knew it would be.

"Is it hard to look in the mirror? I mean, do you see him?"

George got out of bed so fast that her head bounced on the mattress. He looked around for his pants, decided to leave them as a souvenir, and yanked his trousers on. Were the bars still open? What was left at home? Georg was fairly certain he had polished off the last of the Firewhisky two days prior. Why hadn't he bought more? He'd turned into a damn lush, for Merlin's sake, part of the job description included having bottles hidden around the house. Shit, he wasn't even a proper drunk!

With one arm in his shirt, he Disapparated. Seconds later, a cold drizzle was running down his half-exposed chest. There was no telling what time it was, but the sky was black as pitch and Diagon Alley was quiet. The door he stood outside was painted red and if he went inside he'd find a mahogany staircase that led up to small but posh flats. The hall would be dimly lit by fancy wall sconces and behind the heavy, carved door of 2-B would be Angelina Johnson.

At that time of night, she'd be sleeping. It was Quidditch season, which meant early morning practices and game days. He wondered when her next game was. What a shit friend he'd become if he didn't know when Angie's next match was. He'd gone to as many Harpies' games as he could in the last several months. He'd told Angie it was because he liked how she looked in those white breeches (not a lie), but really it was because she was his dearest mate.

Blech! What an appallingly maudlin sentiment. Still, it was true. Fred… well, he'd been everything. The two of them were more than brothers or friends, they'd been two halves of the same whole. Literally. George wasn't stupid; he knew how twins were made. One zygote split in two. That was him and Fred.

And the truth was, George _wished_ he could look in the mirror and see Fred staring back at him, but that's not how it worked. George had spent twenty years of his life staring at Fred's ugly mug, and he'd spent nearly twenty-one staring at his own. He knew the difference even if no one else did.

Back to Angelina. If Fred was everything, then Lee Jordan was probably George's best mate. He was good to tie one on with and talk about witches in a manner that would earn George a good mouth-washing if his mum overhead. And Lee was pretty good at pranks. Amateur, obviously, but good. Ronnie was probably George's favorite brother, but the competition was slim. Seriously, who else would it be? Bill? The prat who married the Veela despite looking like mincemeat? Percy? His middle name was "Stick Up His Arse". Or, well, maybe it was Ignatius, but that was pretty lousy too. Charlie? Maybe Charlie was cool, but the git lived in Romania so he could sod off.

Right, this was about Angelina. What could George say about her? She took _zero_ crap from him. She was funny. She knew the difference between him and Fred. She was hot.

And if George went up to her flat, Angelina would open her door, and tell him off for coming around at such a mental hour. Then she would invite him into her place—which would be all clean and classy—and sit him on her sofa and look straight through him. Did George want Angelina to see him?

He walked through the drizzle to his shop, half his shirt trailing behind him.

oOo

At the end of the Leaky Cauldron's bar sat a singular ginger, his chin in one hand, the other wrapped around a tumbler of Firewhisky, the bottle at his elbow. It was Wednesday.

The night after his one-night-stand-gone-wrong, George had run into Lee Jordan at the pub. The two had ordered shots, toasted to Alicia's amazing tits, and had a good laugh. When George asked the barkeep for the bottle, Lee had given his friend a sad look. George had found an excuse to leave. The next night, he'd stayed in his flat and drank. The morning after, he'd decided that drinking alone was pathetic (and troubling), and had vowed never to do it again. That was how he found himself in the Leaky Cauldron on Wednesday.

Quidditch was on the wireless. Some crusty old warlocks sat in the corner with pipes. Tom was behind the bar, doing his best to ignore the fact that the Weasley boy was drinking himself into a stupor in his pub. As for George, he didn't give a shit about any of it. He was sullenly in his own world, which was almost comfortably numb.

He was busy tracing the rim of his glass with his finger when somebody nudged his arm. George pulled his wand and shoved it in the face of Angelina Johnson. He stared slack-jawed into her brown eyes, her finely-arched eyebrows raised. Shakily, he withdrew his wand and shoved it back in his pocket.

"You planning on hexing me there, Georgie?" she asked mildly.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Wouldn't want to scar that beautiful face."

Angelina slid onto the stool next to his. Without asking, she took his glass and sipped his Firewhisky only to grimace.

"Blech, you couldn't spring for the good stuff? That's little more than rotgut."

"Serves the purpose."

"To get you drunk enough that you don't care what witch you shag?"

George closed his eyes. Dammit, but he hated that Angelina knew about the witches.

Sliding off the stool, Angelina leaned into him. "Let me take you home."

Everything that was Angelina enveloped George's senses. The tangy, familiar scent of her perfume, the weight of her firm breasts pressing against his arm. Her soft, smoky voice in his ear. Her breath warm against his skin. George shuddered. Angelina was a woman like no other. He'd have to be dead not to be turned on by her, but it wasn't like the nameless, faceless witches he'd been screwing. When Angelina offered to take him home, he knew she wasn't offering to take him to bed. She was offering to help him, and when she did that there was this small, gasping voice that said: _Let her. The weight will be easier to bear if you let her help you shoulder it._

"I need to settle my tab," George said.

"Already done," Angelina replied. She pushed the glass and bottle away. "Let's hurry before it rains."

It was a blustery and cold spring night. More than just rain was coming—a storm was eminent. The two of them hurried down Diagon Alley's quiet, cobblestoned streets arm-in-arm, the wind pushing them back. They climbed the rickety stairs at the back of his building to his third floor flat. Watching Angelina's hand grasp the rough, splintered banister, it occurred to George for the first time that maybe he should do something about this staircase. At the top, George pushed open the door, but Angelina came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the flat.

"What's that smell?"

She flicked her wand and the candles blazed to life around the lounge. Piles of dirty clothes, old dishes with half-eaten food, and empty bottles of booze littered every surface. Angelina's eyes snapped from the mess to George. He flushed under her scrutiny. Marching into the flat, she did a turn around the room, then stopped and propped one hand on her hip.

Lightening flashed across the sky as George shut the door. He regarded Angelina warily as the low rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

"Well, two things are certain," she said. "One is that Mrs. Weasley has never been in this hellhole or she would have dragged you home until she was sure you could properly look after yourself."

"I can—" His protest was cut off by one incredulously arched eyebrow.

"And the other is that you haven't been bringing those women back to this dump. Honestly, George, this is disgusting. It wasn't like this when Fred was alive. I remember your little Christmas party during the war and this place was spotless."

George waved his hand at her. "We just cleaned up for the party. This flat was much worse when Fred was here. I mean, _he _was a slob."

Angelina's eyebrow did all her talking for her again. It was a damn magical eyebrow, that.

"And _you_ are in the same state as this pigsty," Angelina said.

"What? It's not as if I smell!" George lifted up one arm and took a whiff of his pit. "Do I?"

"You're a wreck, Georgie," she said in a quiet, sad voice. "Go take a shower. I'll see if there is a clean mug and some tea leaves."

"Just bags, I don't have the good stuff."

"Well, that'll do then."

George stood in the shower for a long time, letting the warm water wash over him. He kept hearing Angelina saying he was a wreck in that sad voice over and over again. It bothered him, the way she'd said it. It scared him, because if Angelina could sound that frightened for him, then maybe he was further gone than he'd thought. Shit, these last weeks of drinking and screwing had been the worst. He didn't like who he was when he woke up in the morning, but the realization of what loomed ahead of him was so damned painful that he just wanted to crawl under a rock. Maybe that's what he should do. Forget the booze and the witches, surely there was a spell or a potion that would render him the size of a cricket, then he could burrow into a hole in the ground and not come out again until… he didn't know. When it hurt less to think, to breathe.

Stepping out of the shower, George felt scrubbed clean. He dripped on the floor for a moment then remembered that his mum always put a towel on the bathroom floor for them to stand on. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea. If he was going to be a drunk, he should eliminate slipping hazards like wet tile. George dried off and dropped his towel on the floor. His mum would be disappointed by that. Maybe he shouldn't let her down in these little ways. He picked up the towel and hung it on the rack. That's what it was for, after all.

George paused before opening the door. He normally walked naked from the bathroom to his bedroom to get dressed, but Angelina was out there. A grin spread across his face. It felt a bit rusty, but nice.

"Oi, Angie!" he yelled out the door.

"Yeah?"

"I'm starkers, so don't look, yeah."

"Thanks for the warning. I'm sure anything as white as your arse would be like looking at the sun."

George chuckled to himself, then stuck his head out the door. He couldn't see her from the bathroom.

"No looking."

"Absolutely not, blind Chasers are worthless."

"Likely story. I know you want to."

George heard Angelina laugh, and something fluttered in his chest. Angelina had a laugh that fit her perfectly: bold and sultry. It had always been so much fun to make her laugh. He and Fred used to compete to see who could make her laugh the loudest. George always won. Fred would disagree, but he was dead so his opinion no longer counted.

Tiptoeing into the hall, George paused. He hoped he would catch Angelina sneaking a peek, but nope.

"Eyes closed?"

"Firmly."

Depending on where she was at, she'd get a good look at him once he got to his bedroom.

"I'm almost to the bedroom. No peeking."

Angelina laughed. "Not a chance."

"Oh, I'm hurt! It's as if you don't _want_ to see me starkers."

More laughter.

"I don't hear you agreeing. That means you must be at least a little curious. Ever see ginger pubes before, Johnson?"

"George!"

"Just asking. You know it's red all over."

Angelina appeared in the hallway, one hand firmly over her eyes. "Just get dressed, you giant prat."

At the sight of her, George's eyes went round, and he covered himself with his hand. Scurring into his bedroom, he closed the door firmly behind him. He could hear the rain pounding against the window behind the drawn curtains. With a heaving chest, he leaned against the door.

Angelina had been covering her eyes, and he was pretty sure she wasn't peeking. Because if she had… He looked at his erection. That was bloody inconvenient. Yet, seeing Angelina Johnson in the same room while he was naked was an adolescent dream come true. It was strange that he never imagined her being naked as well, but honestly he never thought he'd be lucky enough to see _her_ starkers.

It took George no less than twenty minutes to find a clean pair of pants and pajamas. Embarrassing, that. Angelina probably thought he was in his room wanking, for Merlin's sake. Also, he sincerely wished he would've considered that a girl might see his nighttime attire before he bought violently purple pajamas with golden Snitches all over them. He looked like a twelve-year-old.

When finally George left his bedroom, he walked into a clean living room.

"Where did everything go?"

"Well, I didn't do your laundry, if that's what you're hoping," Angelina said. She came out of the galley kitchen levitating two steaming mugs before her. "I couldn't find any milk or sugar, so you'll have to take it plain."

"Perhaps I should start living like an adult one of these days." George sighed and took his cup, cradling it in his hands.

"Maybe you could just stop the drinking and the shagging, and we can work on laundry later."

George stared at his cup. "You were never one to beat around the bush."

"No point in it, is there?" She sat on the sofa, then looked at him over her shoulder. "Come join me, won't you?"

Hesitating for a moment, George just stared at Angelina. Her words sounded like a request, but he knew they were really a command. His mum phrased commands like that sometimes, and he knew from experience that compliance wasn't really an option. If he didn't do what he was being "asked" then the "request" would turn into a "demand" usually said loudly with angry, snapping eyes. So, George sat by Angelina, and was rewarded when she tucked her legs under her and faced him.

"What's going on?" she asked.

George shrugged. "Sales are going well. I'm increasing stock with the anticipation of Easter. It's not as busy as Christmas or summer hols, but it'll be a nice little boost in income. Catalog sales are still where it's at during the school year."

"George…"

There was a loud clap of thunder that shook the flat. George and Angelina jumped. The candles flickered as rolls of percussion rumbled outside.

Heart still racing, he sighed. "Can't you just leave it alone?"

"I have been leaving it alone, but tonight Tom Floo-called _me _to come get you because he was concerned. Now that I'm here, I can see why. You haven't been around in nearly a month and I've been hearing alarming reports about you, but I figured if anybody deserved a mental breakdown, it was you. Now, however, I think it's time to start putting the pieces back together."

George glared at her. "Why do you get to decide that? It's my mental breakdown, not yours."

"It hurts me to watch you suffer, Georgie," Angelina whispered.

"Then don't look," he snapped. "Because I'm never not going to be suffering. Fred's dead."

"Were you suffering when you were teasing me earlier?"

There was another clap of thunder, softer, but still sharp. It kept George from answering her question, which was good because Angelina was right. Dammit. He'd had a lot of fun taking the mickey out of her, and it had been even better when she returned his banter. Not like with Fred. With Fred, it was more like finishing one another's thoughts. With Angelina, it was give and take, and that was enjoyable in a whole new way.

"Is it—is it your birthday?" Angelina asked softly.

Sagging into the cushions, George closed his eyes. "Yes."

"So, what's the plan? You're going to stay drunk until after 2 May? Because little more than a month after your birthday, you have to face the anniversary of his death."

"I know." George blew out a breath. "There was no plan, Angie, I-I just got… tired."

Angelina tucked her hand in his where it laid in his lap. George squeezed her fingers lightly. Merlin, that felt good, that human contact. It wasn't lost on George that Angelina genuinely cared about him. More than anybody else, Angelina had been by his side through this last, horrible, shitty year. He never felt like he had to pretend with her, until now. A part of him wanted to pretend that the last three weeks' behavior never happened because he was ashamed of himself. Fred would be ashamed of him too, though maybe a little giddy that his death had caused so much trouble. But George didn't want Angelina to be ashamed of him. Now that he thought on it, George realized that he didn't want his mum to be disappointed either.

"Last year, Fred and I celebrated our birthday at the Burrow," George said. "It was just us and Mum and Dad. Bill came around for a moment to take the mickey, but shit, it was depressing. It was right before we all went into hiding. Right before Ron, Harry and Hermione showed up at Shell Cottage.

"Fred and I vowed that our next birthday would be the biggest, best, blowout party of all. We would make our departure from Hogwarts look like a prank, the party would be so over the top… and now, it's just me." The last part came out in a whisper. George cleared his throat and pressed on. "I just don't want to have any more birthdays."

Angelina gasped. "George…"

He looked at her. Angelina's brow was puckered and she looked close to tears. In fact, she looked terrified. George reached out and smoothed Angelina's brow with his thumb.

"I just meant that I wish I could sleep through our birthday," he said. "Not that I wanted to be…"

Angelina scooted close to him, curling into his body and resting her head on his shoulder. The weight of her was just so right, so comforting. George took a long, deep breath and let it out. It felt like the first breath he had taken in a year.

"I got through my siblings' birthdays and Halloween and Christmas and New Year's," George recited, closing his eyes. "I just don't have the strength to face my own birthday and… and I haven't even thought about 2 May yet. Do you suppose you could tell my mum that I don't want a party this year?"

Angelina raised her head. "You want _me_ to tell your mum? Are you a Gryffindor or not, you big coward."

George snorted. "You know how she is… I don't want to see the hurt in her eyes, but I can't face a cake made for one, Angie, I just can't."

"Maybe she can't face _making_ a cake for one. Ever think of that?"

Mind reeling, George stared at Angelina. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"So, I understand the drinking, George. I'd been half expecting that for the past year."

"Cheers," he said sarcastically.

"Sorry, but it's not as if anyone would blame you if you became a raging alcoholic after Fred's death. Not after everything you meant to each other… but… I don't understand about the women, George. What is that all about?"

"How do you know about that?"

Angelina's eyebrows shot up. "Really? It's a small community, you daft bugger, when that Weasley boy who is the sole owner of that really successful shop starts screwing anybody willing to drop her knickers, word spreads."

"Shit. Do you—do you suppose my mum knows?"

"I don't know."

Letting his head fall back onto the cushion, George covered his eyes with his hand. "The alcohol wasn't enough," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"The booze wasn't enough to make me forget," he said, dropping his hand. "But when I…" He trailed off, turning red. "Um, you know, when I was… _with_ those women, for a blissful moment, everything just went black. It was just… pleasure and no thinking."

"Oh." Angelina's eyes went wide. "Ooooohhhhh."

"I'm a lousy shag, Angie. I didn't care about those witches, and I didn't care if they felt good."

"I heard that, too."

"Shit! Do you think my _brothers_ heard that?"

Angelina laughed. "I hope so. It would serve you right, you miserable sod."

"You are an evil woman, Angelina Johnson."

"Seriously, George," she said. Her hand curled around his wrist. "If I help you talk to your mum, do you suppose you can stop all this shit? No more drinking, no more women, and if you need somebody, come to me. I will be there for you."

George looked at Angelina for a long time. All kidding aside, Angelina was beautiful. Sure, she was fit, she had a great arse, and curves in all the right places. She was hot, and she knew it, too. Angelina was also beautiful. All that chocolate skin, the almond shaped eyes, the perfect eyebrows, and full lips. Then there was that fierce, fiery, caring heart. Sometimes she only let it be seen in her temper, but in those rare, quiet moments, she let him see it in her eyes.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he asked.

"I'm not interested in a lousy shag, if that's what you're asking." The corners of her mouth pinched like she was trying to keep from smiling.

George laughed. "Yeah, take the piss, you harpy. I just—I don't want to be alone. Please."

"Alright." Angelina shifted stiffly back and forth. "Do I stay out here… while you…"

"No, lay with me. That's it, just lay with me."

She nodded. "Is your bed… as disgusting as the rest of this place?"

George looked at his bedroom door, brow knotted. Angelina sighed and stood.

"C'mon, you prat, I'll help you clean it because I will not sleep in filth."

An hour later, the rubbish had been binned, the laundry piled in baskets, and the sheets changed. George had given Angelina the only clean things he could find to wear: a pair of plaid boxers and an old Gryffindor t-shirt. She had gone down the hall to change in the bathroom, while he was laying ramrod straight on one side of his bed. When Angelina returned, George noticed that she was wearing argyle socks and he smiled.

With a wave of her wand, the lights went out. Angelina climbed into the bed, laying stiffly on her own side.

"Um, I have tomorrow off," she said into the darkness. "I could help you clean your flat properly."

"Cheers," George responded.

Angelina rolled onto her side. "Would—would you like me to hold you?"

"No," he rasped. "Maybe I could hold you? I'll keep my hands in the proper places."

"Alright."

Watching as she turned so that her back was to him, George hesitated. He had been afraid that he would cry if Angelina held him, and the last thing he wanted was to cry with Angelina Johnson in his bed. Deliberately, he rolled onto his side and scooted close to her. Reaching around, he placed his arm around her waist carefully, and pressed his chest against her back. Then, he sighed. Yes, this was Angelina in his arms and she was hot, but she was also his caring friend. He didn't feel aroused and he didn't feel sad. He just _was_. For a little bit, he was like everybody else in the world, and he breathed as if he weren't a sucking chest wound on legs. He was just George, singular.

The storm had blown itself out, but rain could still be heard pattering against the roof. Closing his eyes, George drifted off to sleep.

oOo

He didn't know how long he slept, but when George woke up, it was to see Angelina staring at him. He smiled. She was beautiful in the morning, wearing one of his t-shirts with no make-up and her hair wrapped in a scarf. He wanted to cast a freezing charm on this moment and make it last forever. There, in bed with Angelina (even if it was only platonic) with sunlight trying to sneak by the shroud of the curtains.

"Morning," she said.

"You just had to go and speak, didn't you? Ruined the perfect dream."

Angelina smiled. "And what did you dream last night?"

"Of snogging you," he lied. George rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. There was a crack in it that was the precise shape of an eggplant. The truth was, he hadn't dreamt at all; and that was the best possible night he could think of.

"Sure you did," Angelina grumbled and poked him in the arm. "So, George, in the light of day, what do you want to do about your birthday?"

George sighed and rested one hand over his heart. "Back to not beating around the bush, are we? Sometimes it's more fun to at least take a nice, leisurely stroll around the bloody bush, Johnson. You should try it sometime."

"I'm not interested in bushes, George."

There was a pregnant pause as her words hung in the air, then they both laughed so hard that they were rolling around the bed and clutching their sides. George wiped tears from his eyes. Merlin, when was the last time he laughed like that?

"But seriously, George," Angelina said between gasping breaths.

"I want a tattoo," he blurted out.

She looked at him. "Alright… but not of Fred's face, right?"

"No, but it _is_ spooky how well you know me."

"I've been paying attention some over the years."

"Fair enough." George shrugged. "Just his name. 'Fred'."

"That's good. Simple and eloquent. A nice way to remember him."

"On my arse."

"George!"

"No, no, listen." George rolled so that he was propped up on his elbow. "I thought, you know, about putting it over my heart, but that's pathetic. So maudlin and sappy and Fred would have hated it. But he would love having his name emblazoned on my arse for the rest of time. I mean, seriously, he would have thought it was hilarious. Plus it has the added benefit of being hidden from my mum."

"George—"

"What? My mum does _not_ approve of tattoos. I mean Charlie, the big, tough dragon keeper, he has three tattoos and you wouldn't know it if he didn't tell you."

"Charlie has tattoos?" Angelina asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Yeah, they're all dragons. Surprise, that."

"Where?"

"He has one on his chest, and a big one across his back, and—Hey! Are you laying in _my_ bed and fantasizing about my brother?"

Angelina's skin turned the most fascinating shade of dusky pink George had ever seen.

"I believe," she said, and cleared her throat, "that we were talking about your tattoo."

George flopped onto his back and resumed staring at the eggplant on the ceiling. "I want a Muggle tattoo."

"What?" Angelina sat up. "Why would you do something so mental?"

"Well, because it hurts, doesn't it? I want to feel it. I want to feel his name becoming a part of my skin." George looked at Angelina. "Will you come with me?"

"Me?" She touched one hand to her chest. "Of course, but you don't want Ron or Percy or somebody?"

George shook his head. "No, I want you. We'll do it on my birthday, yeah?"

Angelina took a deep breath, then nodded. Was he asking too much? Nah, if he was, she'd tell him. George could trust Angelina to not allow herself to be walked all over. He was glad, though, that she would be coming with him. George wasn't sure if he would have got up the nerve to do it by himself. He'd been thinking about getting the tattoo done almost as soon as the funeral was over, but always chickened out in the end. Fred would be pissed about that. One thing he couldn't stand was wishy-washy resolve. It was all or nothing for Fred. Maybe, if it hadn't been for George, Fred would have gotten himself killed sooner.

"Here, Georgie," Angelina said softly and touched his upper arm above the bicep. "You should get his name here."

George looked at her and nodded. She was right, of course.

oOo

"How did you find this place?"

George took Angelina's hand and led her out of the dank alley he had Apparated them into. They were in a seedy section of London where he'd found a row of tattoo shops and booked an appointment the day before. Realizing he didn't know the first thing about Muggle London, much less where to get a tattoo, George had asked Harry. When that proved disappointing, he'd asked every Muggleborn of his acquaintance. Surprisingly, it was Percy's girlfriend, Audrey, who had supplied the information. Surprising because she was a pureblood witch, and well, because she was _Percy's_ girlfriend.

"Is this place safe, George?" Angelina asked. She looked around, then pulled her leather jacket more securely around her.

"Am I a wizard or not?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "You're going to break the Statute of Secrecy if we're mugged?"

"I'll think of something, alright. C'mon!"

The shop was whitewashed brick with a big front window that was painted black. Over the door hung a sign in a bright, buzzing light that simply said _Tattoo_. Inside, there was a scarred counter and a couple of chairs that were covered in a weird, slick, blue material. The woman behind the desk had piercings all over her face and jet black hair.

"Yer the one o'clock, then?"

"Yes, that's me," George replied.

"This way. Maisie's ready fer ya."

Maisie, as it turned out, was a six foot tall woman who weighed at least 250 pounds. Both of her arms were covered in tattoos, as was her neck and left boob. She could have been twenty-five or 125, it was hard to tell. But when she smiled, George felt oddly at ease.

"What'll it be there, sonny? Yer girl's name on yer arm?"

George looked at Angelina and blushed. "Oh, no, Angie's not my girl."

"Alright then, you got something else in mind?"

"Just… I want 'Fred' right here," George said, and pulled up the left sleeve of his black t-shirt.

Maisie nodded, pulling a face. "Didn't expect that, but alright. Takes all kinds."

George sat in the black and metal chair that the tattoo artist indicated, and Angelina pulled a stool up on the other side. Once she'd suggested it, George had given a lot of thought to where the tattoo should go. His left arm, he decided, on the same side that was missing an ear.

"So how do ya want it ter look?" Maisie asked, as she sat on a stool on George's other side.

"Um, F-R—"

"I know how to spell Fred, wisearse," she snapped. "What kind of script?"

"Can you make it look like this?" Angelina asked and handed over a bright, orange card.

"Isn't that—" George started.

"The birthday card you two gave me for my seventeenth, yes."

"Didn't it—"

"Have other charming properties?" Angelina finished, and gave him a pointed look. "Yes, but thankfully those have worn off."

The card belched, it did. Two, good, long, wet rips in unison. The two of them had been thinking of having a whole line of joke cards, but not until the shop was established. Then, after they opened it, the card idea just got shuffled to the side. George made a mental note to revisit that idea.

"Like his signature?" Maisie asked, examining the large, bold letters of Fred's name.

George looked from the tattoo artist to Angelina. Merlin, she was one brilliant witch. Fred's name, his own signature, would be etched into George's skin. Something pulled at his heart. Damn, he wanted to get through this day without crying, but he wasn't sure that was possible.

"Yeah," he said. "That's exactly what I want. Can you do it?"

"No problem."

After cleaning his arm, Maisie started up a strange metal device. It emitted a low buzzing sound, like a cross of bumblebees and those odd instruments in Dumbledore's office. She set the needle to George's skin and it was like a cat scratch on a sunburn. George bit his lip and thought of Fred, who would be laughing his arse off if he were watching this from wherever he was. Angelina reached over and took his free hand.

"So, tell me about this Fred." Maisie said as she worked. "He must have been real special to you."

George found that he couldn't answer. In his mind's eye he saw his other half. He saw autumns spent lobbing apples at Percy when they were supposed to be harvesting. Christmases spent waging snowball wars on their brothers. Pranks played on unsuspecting students and teachers alike. He saw Fred looking over his shoulder and smirking as the flow of the battle forced them apart.

"Fred was a maniac," Angelina said when George remained silent. "He was funny and mean. He was a good… athlete, a good brother when it suited him, and a good friend sometimes. He was dead clever, brave beyond sense, and a lousy dancer. Fred was George's twin." Her voice broke. "He died almost a year ago, and today is their birthday."

Tears rolled down George's cheeks. Angelina's squeezed his hand tighter then she leaned in and kissed his cheek. The tattoo only took twenty minutes, but the rest of the session was performed in silence. George's arm went numb after about ten minutes or so, and the pain grew dull. When it was all over, Maisie handed him a mirror and said it was an honor to do his tat.

George looked in the mirror, and there on his freckled arm was Fred's signature in black ink. And each letter was so _right_, just as it had been in life. Fred never printed his name, like George did. No, the bigheaded wanker always used the joined-up writing their mum had taken pains to teach them. Fred claimed that someday he would be famous and people would want his autograph so he might as well make it grand. And now, there it was as if he'd written it on George's skin himself: the bold flourish of the 'F' with the slashing line through the center, the 'R' that was nearly an afterthought, the loop of the 'E' that flowed into the 'D' that had a dashing tale on the end. And it was all underscored with a line stroked under it for emphasis. George managed a small smile, tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Happy Birthday, Forge," he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3: A Night Like This

Author's Note: Okay, two in one day. I wasn't expecting that! Thank you to Leafia for beta reading this for me. Any lingering mistakes are 100 percent mine. I also posted a story called 'A Girl Like Her'. If you like this one, please check that out, too.

Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

_A Night Like This_

_1 May 1999_

The bell over the door belched loudly as a new customer entered Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Two little sandy-haired terrors giggled from under a table near the front of the shop. So, that's where the little devils had gotten off to. They'd been menacing the shop for the last hour since their dear cousin Seamus dropped them off with a "How d'ya do, George, ya wouldn't mind, would ya?" The bastard was probably getting his jollies with some fit bird while his kin were terrorizing innocent shopkeepers. For his part, George hadn't realized that two boys who were not ginger could be such a bother. Frog Spawn and Eye of Newt, as he had affectionately named them, had absolutely no respect for his authority as proprietor. (Possibly because he'd been chasing them while wearing a Headless Hat—but that was neither here nor there! Those two would be bloody brilliant pranksters once they got up to Hogwarts. George was fully prepared to give them a 30 percent discount if they made Gryffindor.)

Looking between a stack of Sciving Snackboxes and a table of Tiny Twisters, George spied the familiar shine of perfectly coifed, black hair. Angelina. She must have just come from training, but she was impeccably attired, from her perfect hair to her posh shoes. While he watched, Angelina looked around the shop, her eyebrows lifted in amazement and her mouth forming a soft 'O'. Pride filled George's chest. Angie would never let him see how impressed she was by his and Fred's business, always claiming that any praise would give them such swollen heads they wouldn't fit through the door.

"_Pathetic!"_

"_The oldest joke in the books!"_

"_Boo!"_

With the chorus of his and his twin's matched voices in his head, George stepped into the aisle, nearly bowling Angelina over. There was a moment where surprise registered in her eyes, but no scream or gasp.

"Oi!" George bellowed. "We close in ten minutes."

One regal eyebrow arched, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Is that so? And I had plans to buy out the shop. Your loss, I reckon."

"Alas, my fortune would have been made. Bad luck, that."

Angelina reached out one hand and touched his chest. George's breath caught in his throat as her fingers gingerly walked up his shirtfront. Shivers jumped down his spine. Merlin, that felt good, Angelina touching him. A dopey smile was on his face as he watched her hand move up his chest, but he allowed it since it was hidden by the charmed chapeau. Her hand came to the edge of the Headless Hat, which she grabbed and yanked off.

"There," she said.

George was quick to wipe his face blank. Wouldn't want Angelina thinking he was a ponce.

"Better?" he asked. Now he smirked, that kind of devil-a-bit smirk he was so good at.

Angelina cocked her head to one side as if giving him a thorough once over. "Not much, no, but it _is_ disconcerting speaking to a decapitation victim, isn't it."

"Nearly Headless Nick always did give you the willies."

An easy smile passed between the two of them. George couldn't help but be a bit transfixed as Angelina's eyes went soft at the shared memory. Then the room filled with noxious purple and yellow gas. Covering her mouth, Angelina started coughing. Impish laughter that sounded remarkably childlike came from somewhere in the vicinity of George's ankles. Frog and Newt's discount was hereby revoked!

"Oi! You little gits!" George bellowed, then coughed. He waved his arms in front of him in an effort to dispel the horrible-smelling gas. Bloody dung bombs. At least twenty of them.

Suddenly, the gas disappeared. George looked around to see the fumes being sucked into Angelina's wand.

"What?" she asked when she saw that he was staring at her.

"Nothing," George muttered and went about wrangling in his little menaces.

Seamus showed up at exactly closing time to retrieve Frog and Spawn. George would have given the fiery Irishman a blistering earful, except that he was quite aware of Angelina loitering behind the counter waiting for him. So instead, he filled the boys' pockets with sweets and bolted the door behind them. Then he took a moment.

Standing before the locked door, shade pulled, George just inhaled, then exhaled slowly. It was just Angelina and she was here on the eve of the anniversary of the worst day of his life. Nothing he couldn't handle. He spotted Verity and asked her if she could handle close up on her own. Normally she would give him a lot of grief. Some tosh about how it was his name on the sign above the shop and not hers, or maybe the old song and dance about how she was underpaid (not true!), but today she just nodded and that was that.

At the back of the store, George found Angelina sitting on the counter examining a Dolores Umbridge toy.

"This is hideous," she said, and tossed the toy aside.

"Not our best seller, I'll admit," George replied and leaned against the counter next to her.

"I'll tell you what would sell," Angelina said in a hushed voice, leaning in. At this range, George could clearly see the spark of mischief in her beautiful brown eyes. "Delores Umbridge voodoo dolls."

George chuckled. "You always had a flair for the dramatic, Johnson."

"I couldn't stop thinking about you all day."

"Those are words I've always wanted to hear from your lips."

She shoved him in the shoulder. "Git. I've been worried about you!"

"It's alright, Angie," George said quietly. "I've…managed."

There was a moment—only the smallest bit of time, but heavy all the same—when Angelina's eyes searched his face for some clue. George liked to take the piss, claim that Angie was trying to figure out if he was having her on or not. He called that patented look _Angelina's Special Bullshit Detector_, but he knew that was just a deflection. From the time they were eleven-years-old, Angelina had a way of looking at him to see what he was really thinking. She'd never looked at Fred that way.

"How about tonight?" she asked, apparently satisfied that George was telling the truth. "I could stay."

"I would love that. My flat's a wreck and I need someone to clean it... Ow!" George rubbed his shoulder where she'd punched him. That eyebrow of hers was incredulous again. "So violent."

"You drive me to extremes, George."

She folded her hands in her lap and looked away.

"I'm going to the Burrow tonight," George said earnestly. "The whole lot is getting together so that nobody will be alone, then we'll travel out to Hogwarts tomorrow as a family."

"That's as it should be," Angelina said, and looked at him.

"What about you? Do you have someone to be with tonight?"

"Katie and Oliver are having the lot of us over to Red's Wood for supper."

"Oooh, a little dinner party with the married couple, so domestic."

"It's not like that…just none of us wanted to be alone, you know."

"So, it'll be you and the happy couples, will it?"

Besides Katie and Oliver's wretched domestic bliss complete with baby and big manor house, Lee and Alicia had gotten together after the war, too. Apparently, facing your imminent death on a daily basis inspired everybody to hop in bed with the first available mate… or true love.

"Well, I was supposed to bring you around, wasn't I?" Angelina said.

"I'll just Floo-call Mum, beg off for the night. I'm sure she won't mind."

"I'm sure," Angelina scoffed. "Look at it this way, you won't have to watch Katie and Oliver make cow eyes at one another over dessert."

George chuckled. "No, just Bill and Fleur… and Merlin's soiled knickers, Percy and Audrey!"

"Oh, you definitely have it worse. If you get desperate, Floo-call me." Angelina slid off the counter. "I'm glad you'll be with your family tonight."

She kissed his cheek then wound her way through the displays to the door. Not moving from his spot holding up the counter, George watched Angelina go. The next day was going to be a shitty one, no doubt about it, but he was surprised that he was holding it together. It was no mystery why to George; it was all to do with Angelina. He picked up the Dolores Umbridge toy. Not one of Fred's finer ideas, or had it been his, George's, idea? He couldn't remember anymore, but he was going to blame it on Fred.

oOo

Angelina walked out of the bright cheeriness of the shop into the gray drizzle of Diagon Alley. It was truly remarkable, the business Fred and George started. She stepped down from the stoop, cast an Impervious charm over her head, and looked back at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It was a purple that would make eggplants jealous, trimmed in an orange that was the exact shade of the twins' hair. When drawn, the shades were a magenta and chartreuse stripe that yelled, "Come back later! Can't you see we're closed, you numpty!" at anyone who climbed up the step after hours. When the shades were pulled, however, the windows were a colorful world of imaginative products and gags.

The building was a garish slash of color through a street of old-world blues and antique yellows, earthy greens and browns, and just a dash of racing red. Looming over the business, and its neighbors', was a bright orange 'W' with flashing lights. Really, the whole display was obscene, and oddly inviting, much like the two men who had created it. Angelina couldn't deny that for every time she'd found frog spawn in her shoes, or spiders creeping down the neck of her robes, she was always keen to go back for more. It was infectious, their laughter and humor, and being around it was addicting and exciting.

As Angelina turned up the Alley in the direction of the Leaky Caldron, she reflected that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes hadn't always looked the way it did now. Originally, the building had sported a giant replica of Fred's head instead of the 'W'. Angelina could still remember the first time she had seen it on the day after graduating from Hogwarts and hopping mad with Fred and George.

"_Merlin's pants," Alicia breathed, gawping up at the enormous replica of one of the twin's head. "Is that…"_

"_It's Fred, of course!" Angelina hissed. She grabbed the other girl's arm and pulled her along. "Only he would be big-headed enough to do something so… so…"_

_The words failed Angelina. _Ostentatious_ seemed too tame for the display before her. Honestly, Fred's fat head loomed six-feet high, laughing at all of Diagon Alley like some sort of bloody condescending shyster. Which was exactly what he was, and his sodding twin too! Yet the skill, the sheer talent that was required to create such a display? Complete with an arm that repeatedly doffed a top hat. It was just outstanding. It was a feat that Angelina knew she could never accomplish. Not that she was surprised. Fred and George were nothing if not brilliant, but would it have killed them to put an ounce of that brilliance into their schoolwork?_

_Well, admittedly, it might._

_But that wasn't the point! Fred and George had deserted Hogwarts. They deserted the Quidditch team, the Gryffindors, Lee and Alicia and Katie. They had deserted her, Angelina, without even leaving a note! Who did that? What kind of friend doesn't at least say 'goodbye' before roaring out of a place?_

_Pushing through the violently orange doors, Angelina was nearly thrown off her stride by the vast, amazing display before her. Colorful boxes were stacked on tables, sparkling bottle lined shelves, miniature hot air balloons were tethered near the windows, a small, mechanical Ferris wheel rotated on top of a counter, monkeys on bicycles zipped across guidelines above it all. It was loud, yes, but this was spectacle at its finest. And so many products! Angelina had no idea that the twins had created such a wide variety of gadgets. _

"_Oi! Paying customers only!" bellowed a familiar voice._

_Carefully wiping her face clear, Angelina narrowed her eyes on the boy sauntering up to her. "Fred Weasley, you are a complete wanker!"_

"_Guilty as charged, sadly," he said and tried to swing his arm around Angelina's shoulders._

"_I am immune to your charm, such as it is," Angelina growled, pushing him off._

"_What's got your knickers in a twist?"_

"_Honestly?" Alicia demanded, arms crossed. "You go without so much as a by-your-leave, and you wonder why we might be angry?"_

"_That would have ruined the show," Fred replied dismissively. "And it was a bloody good show, yeah?"_

"_That's not the point," Angelina snapped._

"_That's always the point!"_

That had been Fred: a maddening, arrogant, brash, juvenile idiot. For all of that, Angelina loved Fred Weasley, only she had never realized it when he was alive. He was her mate, and she missed the sound of his laughter paired with George's. She missed the mischievous glance the two would share when a new plan was being hatched. She missed watching the seamless perfection with which Fred and George played Quidditch. Maybe most of all, Angelina missed the days when no dark shadow passed over George's eyes when he thought of his twin.

Angelina traipsed up Diagon Alley with her arms wrapped around herself. Fred's giant head was destroyed in the war, right after the twins went into hiding. When it came time to reopen, George hadn't had the heart to recreate it. Angelina had been there on that day as well, and it had been like many things since the war ended: a bittersweet triumph.

"_George!" _

_Angelina met Percy's eye over the cash register. _

"_Have you seen your brother?" she asked. "It's ten minutes until we open."_

_Percy adjusted his glasses. "I think he's in the backroom."_

_Blowing out an exasperated breath, Angelina whisked around the counter. The lot of them had busted their arses to get the shop ready to open. Every day for a month a different crew of Weasleys, Harry, Oliver, Katie, Lee, even Alicia, had turned up to clean, restock, and replenish supplies. Angelina had been there every bleeding day. It had been no small effort either—the Death Eaters had been rather thorough in their destruction. But for all of their efforts, the bloody shop couldn't open without its bloody owner._

"_Angelina, wait!" Percy stepped in front of her. "I think he needs a moment to… to just gather himself before—"_

_Angelina stared at Percy sadly. "I know."_

"_So, maybe just give him some time."_

"_No amount of time is going to solve this, Perce, and George has a business to open."_

_Skirting around George's older brother, Angelina marched back to the office only to be met with a locked door. She used several spells to try to unlock it, but unsurprisingly, they hadn't worked. Finally, feeling the eyes of at least three Weasleys and her old Quidditch Captain burrowing into her back, Angelina resorted to beating on the door._

"_Go away!"_

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"_Are you daft? Do you not understand what a locked door means? I. Don't. Want. Company!"_

_Angelina leaned against the door. "Including mine?"_

_With her body pressed against the unyielding door, Angelina held her breath. Judging by the silence that surrounded her so was everybody else. On the other side, she could hear scraping and shuffling, did that mean George was coming to the door? What if he didn't? Would Bill open it for her? She could just blast the bloody thing to pieces._

_Finally, the door swung open. _

"_In or out?" George growled._

"_Screw you, too, George," Angelina snapped back, hand on her hip, one eyebrow cocked._

_He closed his eyes. "Harpy."_

_Angelina pushed past George into the dark office and heard the click as the door shut behind her. "You've got a business to run and less than ten minutes to pull yourself together."_

"_I know." George crossed to the desk, fiddling with pieces of parchment that littered the top. "I never thought I was a sentimental person, you know?"_

"_No, that doesn't sound like you in the least."_

"_So, how come all I've been able to think about all morning is Fred?" His voice cracked. "All the times we sat around planning this blasted thing. The sound of his laughter—"_

_Choking on his tears, George covered his eyes with one hand. Sadness pooled in Angelina's belly. It surged up her esophagus, constricted her throat, filled her mouth, burned her eyes. She wouldn't cry. Wrapping her arms around his chest, Angelina pulled George against her body._

"_You have to pull yourself together," she whispered into the hole where his ear should have been._

_His arms crushed her, his face against her neck, hot tears and breath against her skin. "This was our effing dream, Angie, and where is he?"_

"_George…" Angelina closed her eyes, her hands fisting in his work robes. "Georgie…"_

_There were no words to answer his question. Her Muggle-born mother clung to the Pentecostal roots of her Caribbean heritage, but Angelina's belief was less formal. She couldn't quote scripture, or conjure assurance of streets paved in gold, but wasn't Nearly Headless Nick proof that the body had a soul and that soul lived on in someway? Angelina believed in an afterlife. She believed that Fred was there. Was he one of her mother's angels? Fred Weasley would never deign to be something so soppy and quaint. Could he maybe look down from wherever he was and be proud of George for having the courage to carry on their dream? Maybe. Angelina certainly hoped so._

_George pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "'m gonna be okay," he muttered. "It's just—He should be here." _

Fred hadn't been there, though. He never would be.

Early the next morning, they would all be expected to put on their Sunday best, and hike up to Hogwarts to hear a bunch of drivel about bravery and sacrifice and the shining possibilities of the new peacetime world. A world that Fred died to create, but one he would never be a part of. In 364 ½ days, Fred had already missed so much—the re-opening of his shop was only the beginning. He hadn't danced with Katie at her wedding, or congratulated Oliver when their son was born. There was only one twin to take the mickey out of Lee when he finally got together with Alicia—as unlikely an event as that was. The future was full of weddings and openings, births and break-ups, knockabout Quidditch games and World Cups. Fred wouldn't be there for any of them.

Angelina hunched her shoulders against the wind as she crossed the barrier from Wizarding London into the alley behind the Leaky Caldron. The truth of the matter was, Angelina could miss Fred all she wanted, but she hadn't lost a single thing in the war, not like her friends had. The log of sacrifices read like the world's most morbid grocery list:

Katie: Six months shaved off her life.

Oliver: Two elder brothers killed.

George: One ear, one twin.

Lee: Half his eyesight.

Alicia:

Alicia had lost her entire family in less than twenty-four hours.

As for Angelina, she was one of the lucky ones. In the early days of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Angelina's mother, stepfather, and two half-sisters dashed off to the safety of the Continent. Angelina's father had mostly kept his head down in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and was never bothered. By the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, Angelina could claim that she had survived the war with nothing more than a scratch.

She should be grateful, and she was. Merlin, of course she was! To be anything else would be blasphemous. But what right did she have to cry over Fred, a few Hogwarts mates, some Harpies' teammates, and a beloved professor?

Inside the Leaky Caldron, Angelina was greeted by Hannah Abbott from behind the bar. Neville Longbottom, still in his Auror's robes, was leaning against the other side and appeared to be staring down the blond girl's barmaid costume. Two more who had lost family to Death Eaters. Neville even bore visible scars for his part in the war. Angelina truly was one of the lucky few.

"Can I get you a Butterbeer?" Hannah called.

"No, thank you," Angelina replied, forcing a smile. "I've just come in to use the Floo."

"Well, I suppose we'll see you tomorrow then."

"Would it be terribly rude to say I wasn't looking forward to it?"

Neville laughed dryly. "No, I'd say that would just about sum up the whole blighted affair."

Angelina nodded at the pair, placed a couple of Knuts in the lockbox on the mantle, and took a pinch of Floo powder from the pot. The next day seemed likely to be a well-orchestrated calamity, but the anticipation of it was nearly as unpleasant. Stepping into the fireplace, she threw down the powder, and yelled out, "Red's Wood!"

oOo

After Angelina left the shop, George went up to his flat to get ready to leave for the Burrow. Changing from his work robes into a pair of jeans and one of his mum's homemade jumpers that was too long in the sleeves, he stopped to gather his courage. Of course the family should be together on a bloody awful night like this one. Didn't mean it would be easy.

Going into his kitchen, George pulled a bottle of Firewhisky down from the cabinet. He set it on the counter, took a step back, staring at the bottle. This wasn't the cheap stuff that he'd been guzzling after Ron's birthday. This—_this_ was the good stuff. Romanian, aged for 150 years, smooth and woody.

Unopened.

The Firewhisky had been a birthday gift from Charlie, the only brother unaware of George's recent troubles. Not that any of his brothers had said anything to his face, of course, but George could see the worry and speculation in their penetrating stares every Sunday over Mum's excellent roast.

George had been rather proud of himself when, upon receipt, he'd stored the bottle away untouched. He didn't have a drinking problem, but he didn't want to put that theory to the test. At the moment, however, the licking flames of the amber liquid called his name like a siren song. _One little shot, just to cool your nerves, what could it hurt?_

Blowing a long breath through his nose, George put the bottle back. Maybe, someday, there would be something worth celebrating and he'd open that damn battle then.

In their own ways, each of George's brothers had offered to accompany him to the Burrow for this particular visit. Bill had asked directly when he stopped by during his lunch hour about a week ago. Percy had come by after work to help restock one night, and just gave George that pointed look and wrung his hands. Ron was as direct as Bill, if a bit less tactful: "Oi, you think you can make it on your own or do you need me to come around and give you a kick in the arse?" George was quite sure the only reason Charlie hadn't offered was because he was due to arrive just a few hours before the appointed time.

Well, George had turned them all down. The past year had been a brutal education in how to do things on his own; this was just one more. Or maybe it was a test. Regardless, and with no regard whatsoever for mixed metaphors, George had to stand on his own two feet.

Showing up at on the Burrow's doorstep not a moment sooner than necessary, George could see through the kitchen window that all of his brothers were there, as well as Harry, Fleur, and Audrey. Ginny and Hermione were still up at Hogwarts, and George reckoned they would see them the next day for the ceremony. There was the usual bustle as plates and silverware were being laid by hand; dishes were levitated from the counter to the table. George reminded himself that breathing was an important aspect of living, and walked in.

The mood was already somber, but a hush fell over the kitchen on George's entrance. It lasted a moment, and then Fleur asked Ron to fetch some more serving spoons. Everybody went about their business, except for one. Charlie was looking at George. No, he was_ looking_ at George. Ah, shite, George knew what was coming. It was the look, _the look_, the one that immediately preceded _the question._ George hated the look almost as much as the hated the question. And, at the moment, he thought maybe he hated Charlie, too.

"How are you doing, George?" Charlie asked.

Bloody hell. And there it was: _the question_.

Percy winced. "No one bothered to warn Charles about the question?"

Their brothers snickered.

Sometimes George liked to divide the world into two categories: The first was _The Society of Bloody Arseholes Who Asked the Question_ and the second was _Everybody Else_. All of his brothers had belonged to that Society at some time or another. Shite, Bill had been president of the Society until Boxing Day. The whole family had been invited up to Red's Wood and it had been Oliver who had put an end to Bill's reign: "He feels like shite, how do you think? Now shut it and let's play Quidditch." If for no other reason, George would love his old Quidditch Captain forevermore. Ron was an occasional member—it seemed like ickle Ronniekins felt obligated to check how George was doing from time to time. To which George would respond with a not-so-friendly "Screw you."

Surprisingly, Percy had never asked the question. George wasn't sure why that was, or what it said about Percy the Prat. If George were honest with himself, Percy wasn't as big of a wanker as the younger brother remembered. Over the last year, they'd built something of a tentative new relationship, a lot of which had to do with Audrey. And some of it had to do with Fred.

Charlie, on the other hand, just wasn't around enough. Not a bad excuse for being a massive arsehole, as excuses went. In all fairness, George could give him a pass. He could, but he wouldn't. Honestly, what would Fred have said?

"Well, Chaz," George started, his shoulders tight and his brow knotted. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of Fred's death so I feel like fuck you, that's how I feel."

It was crude. It was rude. Fred would have loved it. Nothing ol' Freddie loved more than the sweet sounds and sights of pandemonium that were now erupting all over the Weasley kitchen. Charlie's face went red under all of his freckles, his eyes wide. Their brothers—sods, every last one—laughed.

_No better sound in the world, eh, Forge?_

"George Weasley!" Mum shrieked, the smashed parsnips thunking onto the tabletop with extra force.

_Run, or it'll be sore bottoms time!_

"That's enough, all of you," Dad said and patted the air in the universal sign for 'settle down'.

Best of all, Fleur whacked Bill on the arm as they took their seats at the table.

"Now, all of you eat up," Mum said and pulled her apron off to hang by the door. "I know none of us are looking forward to tomorrow, but it will be easier to face on full stomachs."

Mum pulled her cloak around her shoulders, trading her house shoes for a pair of Wellies.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, spooning a third heaping serving of peas onto his plate.

"I'm off to call on Andromeda."

"I tried to get her to come today," Harry said. "She wants to be alone."

"I know it, and I understand, but it's easier to be alone when you have a bit of company."

"Try to get her to come tomorrow, or at least to let us bring Teddy."

Mum sighed. "I'll mention it, but I won't press her. We all deserve to grieve in our own way."

"Would you like me to come with you, Molly?" Dad asked as he accepted a plate of stewed cabbage from Bill.

"No, you stay and enjoy your meal." Mum bustled over to George and smacked his hand. "That wasn't very nice. You were raised better than that."

George considered this to be an outrageous lie—wasn't Ron proof otherwise? Still, he hung his head and muttered, "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

She nodded, apparently satisfied, or at least willing to let him off the hook on this night. Then, "How _are_ you doing, dear?"

Mum was allowed to ask the question.

"About as well as you, I imagine."

She kissed his cheek. "We'll make it through."

oOo

After Mum left, dinner was a bad job. Ron had shoveled food into his gob, but nobody else could find the stomach to eat. They could barely even speak. Dad did his part, trying to start up conversation that fell awkwardly into the gloomy silence. George hated nights like that, and there had been a few. Fred wouldn't have stood for it. He would have cracked a joke, taken the piss out of Ron or Percy, something, anything to lighten the mood. On his own, however, George could never quite manage it.

When no one could take it any longer, Fleur and Audrey had cleaned up the kitchen. Enough leftovers were put away that Mum wouldn't have to cook for a week. Then Bill had whisked the two of them away, while Percy stayed behind. Dad had gone up to bed early, leaving Charlie, Percy, George, Ron, and Harry to drink Butterbeers in the sitting room on their own.

One by one, his brothers went up to bed, but George remained in his seat by the fire. He'd seen Mum come in and trudge up the stairs. Still, George sat. If he were honest with himself, and he tried to be, he didn't want to sleep alone in his old room. He'd done it before, of course, in those interminable weeks after the Battle, at Christmas, and New Year's, but tonight it seemed impossible. The sight of that bloody empty bed next to his, Fred's bed, it was too much to bear on a night like this.

When the clock struck 11:30, George set aside the Butterbeer he'd been nursing for the last hour, and stood to stretch his cramped limbs. In a few hours, somebody would stick their head in his room and gently tell him to wake up. He would go to breakfast and Mum would gently tell him to eat up, he needed his strength. He'd shower and dress, and then Dad would gently offer to side-along Apparate him to Hogsmeade. It would all be gently exhausting, but there was no way to gently excuse himself from it, so he'd better try to get some sleep.

The house was dark as George climbed the stairs, but he deftly skipped the squeaky step just before the second landing, where he noticed a light coming from under Percy's door. Of all of his brothers, George had not expected to find Percy still awake. Or maybe he did. Percy had been with Fred that night; he'd watched their brother die after Fred had welcomed him home with open arms.

Standing exactly halfway between Percy's bedroom and his own, it didn't take much thought for George to turn away from his door and knock lightly on his brother's. The thought that Percy might have his girl in there never even crossed his mind. Not straight-laced Percy, he would never sneak a girl into their mother's home!

So, it was a bit like being fed a canary cream when Percy opened his bedroom door, his curls disheveled, wearing a white t-shirt and his pajama bottoms. On the bed behind him, fast asleep and obviously wearing the matching pajama top, was Audrey. Heat flooded George's face.

"How'd you get her up here?" George blurted.

"Shhh!" Percy hushed, then whispered, "Audrey is a very clever witch."

"Did you—Am I interrupting—Uh…"

"We weren't—She didn't want—That's none of your business!"

The brothers stared at each other for a moment, their faces flaming.

"Come in or go away," Percy snapped.

And that was how George found himself standing in Percy's room. It looked much the same as always, except, obviously, for the girl in his bed. That was definitely new and interesting. Not to mention utterly, skin-crawlingly bizarre. Who shagged Percy the Prat?

Well, presumably Penelope Clearwater back at Hogwarts, and now Audrey. Bloody hell, had there been others?

"So, uh," George whispered.

"Don't worry, you won't wake her," Percy said in a soft voice, and sat down at his desk. With his wand, he conjured a chair for George.

"Cheers." George glanced at Audrey in the bed again. "So, what do you plan to tell Mum in the morning?"

"The truth, I reckon."

"That'll go over like a ton of bricks, I imagine."

Percy grinned, pushing his glasses up. "Well, I am an adult, aren't I?"

"Amateur," George scoffed. "That will never work with _Mum_. Honestly, I'm not even sure it will work with Dad. Sneaking a girl into the Burrow… I wish I would have thought of that."

"Do you think I'm the first brother to have come up with this?"

"Good point. Although, I'm willing to bet Bill and Charlie did it with a little more finesse."

"Don't they always?" Percy shrugged. "Why aren't you in bed? Can't sleep… or you don't want to?"

George sighed, but he didn't answer which didn't seem to bother Percy. Maybe his elder brother already knew the answer, or maybe he just didn't need it. One of the things George had learned about Percy over the past year was that he knew his younger siblings much better than George, or Fred, had ever given him credit for. Certainly better than George ever knew Percy. Now, with his newfound humility, Perce didn't walk around trying to impress anybody.

"The nightmares have started again," Percy admitted. "That's why Audrey came back tonight, so I wouldn't be alone."

"Fred?" George guessed. The pills on the arm of his sweater suddenly became incredibly interesting.

The silence in the little room was so complete that George could hear his own breathing. It wasn't like they never spoke of Fred. They did, especially after a few drinks, but they never spoke of the Battle. They didn't talk about Percy's return, or the way George had gotten separated from his brothers, or Fred's death. One time, the day—maybe two days after the Battle ended, Percy and Ron had haltingly told the whole wretched story, but that was it. Nobody had the bollocks to talk about it again after that.

"I saw some nightmarish things," Percy said, tapping his fingers on the desk absently. "Especially in those final months, but… nothing haunts me like Fred."

George could bloody well commiserate.

"If I had been faster… If I'd traded him places… If I hadn't distracted him…"

"If I hadn't been separated from you…" George added.

Percy folded his hands in his lap, silently staring at them.

"It's not your fault, Perce."

Percy nodded. "I know. Logically I know that. Emotionally is a different story."

"Well, if you start blaming yourself for things out of your control, just come around the ol' Triple W and I'll kick your arse, yeah?"

"You'll have to get in line. Audrey offered to, erm, kick my arse months ago."

George laughed. "I like her. Don't know what she's doing with a prat like you, I assume you've enchanted her somehow."

"Yes, I should hurry up and marry her before she comes to her senses."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"Me?" Percy pulled an outraged face, touching his chest pompously. "Take the piss? Never!"

George laughed, punching his brother in the arm. "C'mon."

"One day soon, yes," Percy said with a true smile. "If she'll have me."

"She'll have you. I mean she's willing to risk the wrath of Molly Weasley just so ickle Percykins won't have nightmares."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"As I understand it, you've stopped shagging anything in a skirt—"

George groaned.

"And not a moment too soon, you were ruining the family name."

Bollocks, now Percy was taking the piss.

"So, does that mean you've met someone special? Or maybe just noticed an old someone special?"

"Is this your way of asking if I have a girlfriend?"

Percy nodded stiffly. "Yes, I believe so."

"It's a little too soon for that, isn't it? I mean, I'm a pretty bad bargain, ain't I?"

"Being a terrible shag isn't the end of the world. You can learn, would you like me to draw you a diagram?"

George stared into Percy's perfectly straight sodding face.

"Piss off!"

Laughter burst out of Percy. On the bed, Audrey rolled over, the coverlets shifting to show a bit of white thigh and pink knickers. George felt his face heat up, but Percy flicked his wand and the covers righted themselves. Best just to pretend that hadn't happened.

"I think I liked you better when you had a stick up your arse," George complained.

"Sorry, I'll do my best to be an insufferable git if it suits you."

"It does actually."

"I just thought… maybe you and Angelina Johnson…"

"We're just mates," George was quick to say.

The words jumped out of his mouth, but his heart was doing somersaults in his chest. Him and Angie, they were just friends. That was all they ever should be, because really, she deserved better than a one-eared wreck that used to be one of the infamous Weasley twins. Maybe, at one time, they could have been more. George didn't think it was his imagination that Angelina had always had a soft spot for him, though to say she ever fancied him would have been a stretch. Not the way George had fancied her, but of course he was just one in a long line of admirers, Fred included.

"We're all bad bargains, you know," Percy said, startling George out of his thoughts. "Doesn't mean we can't still find happiness."

Ah, Merlin, was Percy reading his mind? Had he become an Occlumens at some point and forgotten to mention it? Seemed like pretty pertinent information to George. _Oh, don't mind me, I'm just reading your mind, and I'm shocked! Shocked! How dare you abuse a Puffskein in such a manner! _ But no, Percy was just echoing what George had said earlier, wasn't he? Best just to deflect the whole damned thing.

"Gah, so bloody maudlin." George stood. "Alright, time to face the bed."

"I'd let you stay here, but…" Percy motioned to the sleeping woman in his twin-sized bed.

"Right, a bit crowded, I get it."

"And she's prettier than you. Softer, too."

The two of them walked to Percy's door, but at the last moment, the older brother put a hand on George's shoulder. Any merriment that had been in Percy's eyes only moments ago was gone. His features stretched tight, his eyes glittering behind his glasses.

"George," Percy rasped. "I really am sorry. If I could somehow change it, trade places with him, anything…"

"Why don't you ever ask me the question?" George asked, staring up at his taller, older brother.

"What?" Percy summoned a hanky and wiped his nose. "I-ah-the question?" He didn't pretend to not know what George was talking about; he just shrugged and looked at his hands. "I reckon I feel like shite so you must feel worse."

"I'm glad you came back, Perce. I wish Fred could have gotten to know you better."

Percy sniffed. "Th-thank you."

"Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

"Today, actually. The clock chimed midnight a few minutes ago."

"Well then."

George hurried out of the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it. How could May 2 have come without him noticing? Rushing into his room, George tossed off his clothes and lay down in Fred's bed to stare at the darkened ceiling.

"Good night, Freddie."

oOo

George must have fallen asleep at some point because his room was black as pitch one moment and shining with a newly dawned sun the next. There was no gentle wake up call like he'd expected. Instead he was awoken by the rhythmic rappity-rap-rap of one bloody persistent owl banging on the windowpane. He swung his legs out of his—out of Fred's bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. At the window was a great, foul-tempered snowy owl that was as beautiful and tenacious as her owner.

In just his pants, George threw open the sash so that the owl could fly in. She dropped her missive on the floor for the pure joy of watching George stoop down in his drawers to pick it up. Harpy by name, harpy by disposition.

Unfolding the letter, George saw the familiar bold hand of Angelina Johnson scrawled across the parchment:

"_I know you can do this. –AJ"_

It was May 2, 1999, and a tiny smile pulled at George Weasley's mouth.

* * *

Please review!


	4. Epiphany: Chapter 1

Author's Note:Thank you to my brilliant beta, Burgundy Hope!

A/N2: When I started writing fanfiction, I set a rule for myself that I wouldn't post any stories unless they were complete. And then came George. I'm sure that none of you will be surprised that he broke all of my rules! _Finding Balance _was meant to be a one-shot—George had other ideas. Now, I humbly submit to you, dear reader, _Epiphany. _Unlike previous entries in this collection, _Epiphany_ is broken down into eight chapters. I'll post one a week for the next few months. I think you will find a few surprises along the way, and that they are enjoyable. Either way, I would love to hear what you think!

Disclaimer: The world and its characters belong to the incomparable JK Rowling.

* * *

Epiphany: Chapter 1

George did not think he'd had a single epiphany in his entire life before Fred went and got himself bloody killed. Everything in their lives up until that moment had seemed like it was flowing to their natural destiny—from Hogwarts' prankster kings to Quidditch gods to successful entrepreneurs. Sure, there was a lot of damn hard work that went into it, but no denying that it was all there for Fred and George's taking. It never occurred to either of them that fate might have a cruel side, or that she could deal a bad hand to her favorite devils.

The first month after Fred died was a bit of a blur. Well, to be honest, that whole summer was a massive black spot in George's memory, with the exception of a few moments that flared to relief in his mind, brighter for being set against so much darkness.

The first had come one month after the damned Battle when Angelina finally got her very fine, but truant arse out to the Burrow. George could remember being vaguely angry with her, but mostly he remembered lying in her arms and having Epiphany No. 1: he wanted to try.

Prior to that, George had been keeping his options open. For one very short, and very scary moment, death had seemed a good option, but that idea had gotten the heave ho with alacrity. George Weasley did not commit suicide. He may very well be done in by one of his own inventions someday, but it wouldn't be on purpose. Alcoholism seemed a pretty decent option. It was one he'd tried out a few times, and one that still haunted him as a possibility. Really, in that month after Fred died, all George wanted was to spend the rest of his life lying in his bed and not existing.

It was about that point when Angelina showed up. She made him laugh. She took none of his shite. And when he was in her arms, George realized that he wanted to try to figure out how to live this new life that he never wanted—never even contemplated—but was saddled with all the same. He'd survived the bloody war when Fred had died. It was George's duty to live a good life for his twin, but he also wanted to do it for Mum and Dad, and his brothers and Ginny, and his friends and Angelina. But mostly he wanted to do it for himself. George was many things, but quitter wasn't one of them. He wasn't going to quit on his life, and that meant he couldn't quit on the dream he and Fred had shared.

What followed was the hardest, and loneliest, year of George's life. Yet he made it through, maybe a little worse for the wear, but in one piece all the same. Once he got his first lone birthday and the anniversary of the Battle behind him, George's life plodded on in the same singular direction until Epiphany No. 2.

The Holyhead Harpies were having a good year. George should know, he'd gone to enough games that the wizard at the gate knew him by name. The whole season came down to the last match. Win it, and they would play in the semi-finals. Lose it, they would go home and try again next year. George was in the stands with Lee and Alicia. Katie couldn't make it. Some tosh about her husband playing the same night in Puddlemere. Honestly, where were the girl's loyalties? Anyway, since Katie was off playing wifey, George bullied his baby brother into coming along. It was a banging good game. The four of them stood in the stands, cheering until they were hoarse.

Eight hours into the game, with the stars twinkling against an early summer sky, Angelina scored in the same precise instant that the Harpies's Seeker caught the Snitch. One moment, Angelina's face was set in that fierce, all-business mask George knew so well. Then in the next, her eyebrows sprang high on her forehead and a smile broke across her face. She was sweaty, and her hair was in a ponytail, but damn Angelina Johnson was radiant.

George hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her. Angelina was strong, but she wasn't particularly stoic. She was beautiful in all of her emotions, but none were as vibrant as Angelina in victory. Spinning her broomstick in circles, ascending high above the crowd, she was quite simply the most alive being George had ever seen.

And in that moment, George knew he wanted to do more than try. He wanted to live a full life. He wanted more than carrying on the dreams he made with Fred. George wanted to live his own dream. Namely, he wanted to be with Angelina. It wasn't even a new dream. This was something he'd wanted for so long, he couldn't even remember when it began. All he had to do was somehow trick Angelina into agreeing.

Not that anything that followed Epiphany No. 2 was simple or straightforward. First, he had to survive what he would forever remember as the single most bloody mental summer of his life. It would involve his horny younger brother, Luna Lovegood, a good-for-nothing Slytherin, a lot of sex, and some of the most humiliating moments of George's entire life. So, he reckoned it all began the Sunday after that fateful game, when he went around the Burrow for dinner and ended up with a roommate.

oOo

"Dinner was great as usual, Mum," Ron said, as he pushed his plate away from him. It was, by George's count, Ron's fifths.

"Thank you, dear," Mum said, smiling.

"You worked so hard, you deserve a break. George and I will just clean up then."

George might only have one ear, but he distinctly heard his ruddy little brother volunteering him for dishes. This was the time of day when George weaseled himself out of clean up with some invented excuse or another. It was all a part of the tradition, and George did not like Ron spoiling his fun.

"Oi, speak for yourself," George grumbled. "I'm needed at the shop."

"Whatever for?" Bill asked as he stood from his chair and offered a hand to his wife. "You're closed on Sundays."

"What better time is there to do inventory?"

"I did your inventory last month," Percy said.

"And you can't tell me Percy wasn't thorough," Audrey put in with a dimpled smile.

George felt his ear burn red. Dammit, there was that sly look in Audrey's eyes as she placed her hand on Percy's lower back. She always had a way of making it sound like she was talking about the Prat's performance in bed, and it was damned uncomfortable. The last thing George wanted to picture was Percy shagging his girlfriend. Fit little bird that she was.

"The books, then," George said, tugging on his collar.

"And since when have you done your own books?" Bill said and slapped George on the back as he left the table. "If you've developed a head for maths, I'll gladly relinquish those to you."

"Thank you, boys, for volunteering," Mum said, clearly ending any of George's attempts at escape.

When everybody else had scarpered, George flicked Ron with a towel.

"Ow!"

"Bloody dishes!" George snapped. "Are you effing mental?"

"Look, George, I wanted to have a word with you. You know, just the two of us."

"And we couldn't have done that while hiding from Mum in the broom shed?"

"Fine!" Ron huffed. "I'll do the cleaning—"

"Damn straight!"

"Just hear me out, will you?"

"I'm all ear."

_Bloody ear humor._

George tipped back in his chair, picturing his twin shaking his head in dismay over the lame joke. Of all people, Fred had been uncharacteristically sensitive about the whole ear thing. He acted as if all George's attempts at poking fun at it were pathetic, but George reckoned that Fred was genuinely upset. Sure, it was George who was left maimed, but one stroke of bad luck had made them not-so-identical twins. Of course, another stroke of bad luck would leave them not twins at all.

"Look, George," Ron started as he cleared plates. "Hermione's graduating in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, so is our sister. You remember her? About yay-high, red hair, bigger bollocks than you. We call her Ginny."

Ron looked at George as if he were having serious second thoughts, but must have decided it was worth it because he carried on.

"Anyway, Hermione's going to live with her parents over the summer. You know, trying to make up for lost time. And I live here, which always seemed temporary, but I'm still in Auror training and the pay's not that good. I thought about me and Harry living together, you know, but Harry's pretty chuffed to live on his own for the first time…and well, him and Ginny…ugh!"

"Eloquent," George deadpanned. Although, if pressed, he would have to admit that "him and Ginny…ugh" was a pretty astute observation on the subject of their baby sister shagging the Chosen One.

"Well, I just thought, you have that second bedroom…"

Wait a minute!

"I know it was Fred's. If-if you're not ready to have somebody move into Fred's bedroom, I understand, but I just thought we could be…roommates."

All four legs of the chair banged to the floor. George eyed his brother for a long moment.

"Let me get this straight," George said. "You want to move into Fred's room so that you can shag your girlfriend without any parents around?"

"No? Well, that isn't the only reason."

George took a moment to consider this request. In part, to see Ron squirm, but also because he really needed a second to process this. George had been in Fred's room since he died, but mostly it had stayed closed up with all of Fred's things and dirty laundry. Still, if George wanted to move on, didn't he need to deal with Fred's things? Maybe stop thinking of a room where Fred had done little more than sleep and take the occasional date as off limits?

"Yeah, okay," George grunted.

He got up and went outside. He didn't stop until he was in his shop. Anyway, that was the story of how George ended up with a roommate.

oOo

As for Angelina, she had never thought much about epiphanies. She was much too practical for the whims of fate and sudden, magical realizations. Even as a third year, Angelina had known that an easy mark was not worth the twaddle of false magic that was Divination. Never mind that her own mother, and even Muggle granny, were massive champions of the so called art.

Two days after George got himself a roommate, Angelina's teammates were dragging her out for a pre-match kip to the pub to cool their nerves. The next day was the semi-finals, and the young Harpies team was wound so tight they might snap rather than spring.

"Remember, ladies, no more than three drinks," team captain, Gwenog Jones, called.

"Five!" returned the Seeker, the 102 pound Calista Fife. For such a small woman, she could put away the alcohol.

"Three, Fife," Jones barked. "And no men. I want you lot sharp on the pitch tomorrow."

"Jones obviously doesn't know what a good orgasm can do for your on pitch performance," Chaser Daphne Swift quipped with a smirk before throwing back a tumbler of Firewhisky.

Angelina was glad that her dark skin hid her blushes from the unobservant. The Harpies were a young team, it was true, but Angelina was the youngest. Gwenog was a decade older than Angelina, and still the fiercest player Angelina had ever met. Maybe it was because she was a female Beater with something to prove, but Jones could drink, curse, and screw with the best of them. In comparison, Angelina felt a complete prude. It would seem some of her mother's stern, Pentecostal diatribes about boys leading her oldest daughter astray had sunk in. Since Hogwarts, Angelina had a strict rule regarding dating and the Quidditch season: the two did not mix.

Her teammates called Angelina The Great Virgin. Which wasn't true, but it certainly felt that way in comparison to the rest of them. No boyfriends and no casual sex for Angelina Johnson. She'd tried that on in her early days with the team, and it had not fit.

So, as the team easily slipped past Gwenog's three drink maximum, Angelina escaped into a lonely corner of the pub with her Butterbeer. Only the corner wasn't as lonely as she had first assumed as she found a familiar face lurking by the door.

"Adrian Pucey?"

The man in question smiled. He was by far the best, and most honest, Slytherin Chaser during Angelina's time at Hogwarts. For his efforts, he'd been chucked off the team in favor of some half-troll willing to bash a Gryffindor's head in, on the pitch of course. Pucey was also damn fine. If he hadn't been a Slytherin, Angelina could have fancied him.

"Good evening, Chaser Johnson."

"What brings you to this corner of Wales?"

"I was meeting a friend," Pucey said, motioning with his Butterbeer towards a ginger man who was chatting up Calista. "But it would seem he's found more…delightful company than I could provide."

"You could join him," Angelina said. She eyed him appreciatively. He must be six-foot-three, maybe taller, and leanly muscular. Black hair and hazel eyes, and the kind of perfect features that managed to be beautiful but unmistakably masculine at the same time. "I'm sure the team would love you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he said, still with that smile. "I think they might eat me alive."

Angelina laughed and sat at a nearby table. "They would, too."

"Do you mind?" he asked, hand on the back of the opposite chair.

"Not at all."

"Are you nervous for tomorrow's game?" he asked, leaning in.

"I try to tell myself it's like playing for the Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts," Angelina said. "But…"

"It's not at all?"

She shook her head. "No, it's not. It's the biggest match of my life and no amount of Butterbeer is going to cool my anxiety."

"Still, you're living the dream, right?"

In so many ways Pucey was right. From the first time her father took her to a Quidditch match, Angelina had wanted to play professionally. But she couldn't help looking at her teammates and feel as if the dream wasn't all it should be. Oliver had a comfortable position in Puddlemere. Most of the team was older than him, a good mix of men and women, several of them married, including Oliver. Puddlemere was renowned as a very family oriented team, with strong community roots. The Harpies, on the other hand, were the rebels. A group of witches out to prove their worth. Marriage and family wasn't strictly forbidden, but the underlying attitude was that those things were frowned upon. How many witches lasted in this league after babies came along?

"Yes," Angelina said. "It's everything I've always wanted."

Some of Angelina's conflicting emotions must have played across her face because Pucey's hazel eyes had some uncomfortable, and all too knowing, questions behind them. "I know something of living with a group and not feeling a part of them."

"Do you?" Angelina cocked one eyebrow. "So, I hear you're the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Are you hiding any scandals that will end your career? Are you secretly a vampire? Or maybe you have a string of bastards across England and Wales."

"Guilty as charged," Pucey said with a laugh. "I have a litter of vampire babies hidden away in the wilds of Scotland as we speak."

"Careful. That's the kind of thing that we Gryffindors would absolutely believe of a Slytherin." Angelina leaned in and pitched her voice low. "Even one who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I hate to disappoint, but I've given up all my deep dark secrets, and I hope that they are the type to do me credit, rather than harm."

"How did you end up as Defense professor?"

"The same way everybody else does: No one wanted the job and I needed one."

"And do you like it?"

Pucey stroked his chin, looking far off for a moment. "I do, much to my own surprise. It's had its moments, but—"

"Such as?" Angelina asked. She was picturing Puking Pastels and dung bombs, but was delighted when Pucey blushed.

"Well." He cleared his throat. "Some of the sixth and seventh year Slytherin girls remember me, and it's been, er, awkward."

Angelina laughed. "You can't leave it there. What are we talking about here? Love potions? Bad poetry?"

"Um, yes, there's been some of that." Pucey's face was now bright red.

"C'mon, Pucey, you can tell me."

"Adrian."

That caused Angelina to pause for a moment.

"I'll call you Adrian," she said, eyeing him from under her eyelashes. "_If_ you tell me what these girls did to make you so flustered."

"I can see the Gryffindor chivalry does not extend to its female members." He sighed heavily, but grinned. "My quarters are on the same corridor as the Slytherin common rooms. I'm being groomed, you see, to take over as Head of House when Slughorn leaves. And well, all of the students need extra support this year."

"What do you mean?"

"Nightmares, flashbacks. In Slytherin, there is a lot of infighting, and bullying from the rest of the school."

"Oh." Angelina had never imagined that the Slytherins would be affected by the war the same way that other Houses were. She'd heard about the kind of intimidation tactics that had been allowed at the school in the last year of the war, largely carried out by Slytherins. Yet, she couldn't imagine Adrian taking part in torture sessions, so maybe there were other Slytherins of his ilk.

"Anyway," Adrian plowed ahead. "Once, early in the year, two of the older girls came around my rooms in their, um, silk dressing gowns. And nothing else." Fascinatingly, his entire face turned the exact shade of a Bing cherry. "Which they proceeded to show me, along with a highly inappropriate offer."

Angelina laughed. "Do I want to know what the offer was? I think I do."

"No, you decidedly do not." His face went from Bing chery to eggplant, causing Angelina to chuckle.

"Well, what did you do then?"

"I took two hundred points from Slytherin and gave them a month's worth of detention with Filch. Then the next day, I installed a magical peephole. I was not going to be caught unawares again."

"Who knew that being a Hogwarts professor was so exciting?"

Adrian collapsed against his chair. "Who knew, indeed."

Somehow an hour passed by, then two, and Angelina never noticed until she saw Calista stumbling out with Adrian's ginger friend. Their conversation had carried on seamlessly from Hogwarts to catching up about friends and classmates. Adrian had known about Lee and Alicia, but not that Alicia had lost her family in the war. Meanwhile, Angelina was astonished to find out that Adrian had been close with David Smythe, a Muggleborn Hufflepuff from their year. David was killed by Snatchers, but he'd been a mate of Angelina's ex-boyfriend, Paul Young, who'd also been a Hufflepuff. That small world feeling had pressed in on Angelina until she realized that her team was pissed and she needed to get her sleep.

"Thank you for keeping me company," Angelina said, pushing away from the table.

Adrian automatically stood. "Th-this has been nice…Angelina. May I call you Angelina?"

Pursing her lips, Angelina curtseyed. "You may." She burst out laughing when he blushed.

"I know, my manners can be stuffy, I reckon."

"It's nice."

"Antiquated might be more to the point. What I really wanted to ask is if you'd like to go out sometime? On a proper date? Or-or just drinks?"

Angelina's breath caught. It had been a long time since she dated anybody—since Katie touched that cursed necklace actually. After all was said and done, so many of her friends had been left hurting or grieving, Angelina just hadn't felt the time or need for romance. But everybody was getting on with their lives, weren't they? Aside from Katie and Oliver, who had dashed down the aisle with a bun in the oven, Lee and Alicia were seeing each other, too. In fact, Lee's star was on the rise with the Wizarding Wireless Network, and Angelina had hopes that Alicia would return to her Healer's studies this summer. George had the shop and his family. She knew her friendship was important to him, but surely he wouldn't begrudge her a spot of fun, would he? George didn't even need to know. One date was nothing, it probably wouldn't even turn into two dates muchless a relationship.

"I don't date during the season," Angelina said. Taking all of her Gryffindor courage in hand, Angelina looked at Adrian from under her lashes and offered him a red-lipped smile. "But owl me when it's over."

* * *

A/N3: Please leave a review and watch for me next week at this time!


	5. Epiphany: Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews. Next week, I am going to return to posting on Tuesdays.

* * *

Epiphany: Chapter 2

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

George and Angelina stood shoulder to shoulder outside the closed door to Fred's bedroom. In two days, Ron was due to move in. George had put it off for as long as he could simply to avoid doing what he was about to do. But with Ginny and Hermione due home in less than a week, Ron had become insistent. So, here George was, about to enter Fred's room.

"Live with Ron?" George asked, purposely misunderstanding Angelina's question. "I've done it before. Reckon I'll get used to it."

Angelina's eyebrows twitched in the corners the way they did when she thought he was a fool, but she didn't say anything.

"Now or never, right?" George said and pushed open the door.

The room was dark, despite it being the middle of the day. Fred had a preference for black out curtains, which were pulled tight over the lone window. With a flick of his wand, the curtains spread to let sunshine crawl in. It had to bend around the neighboring building and shimmy through the alley to get into the room. Still, it was enough light to show the immense mess that was Fred's room. The bed was a mass of rumpled sheets, the quilt wadded up at the bottom. A stack of _Playwizards_ stood on the bedside table with a few other necessary pieces of equipment now long turned to crust. Dirty clothes tumbled out of the hamper and across the floor. The bureau drawers were half pushed in, trouser legs and undershirts hanging over the sides and a jumble of combs, watches, and sickles sat on top. Over the bed was a huge poster of what had been the latest Firebolt, across the room was an enlarged topless photo of Gwenog Jones from her early playing days.

"Ugh, it stinks," Angelina complained with a grimace. A few swishes of her wand and the window sprang open, a fan materialized, and an air freshening charm was employed. "And this…"

Angelina sent George a dirty look, then ripped Gwenog's photo off the wall.

"What?" George said. "I'm not the one with a thing for old women with biceps the size of my head."

In truth, and George thought maybe he wouldn't tell Angelina this, but Fred had slept with Gwenog Jones. It was right after Angelina had joined the team. She'd been excited to take Alicia and the twins to a team party, where Fred and George had been their usual charming selves. Gwenog had apparently been impressed because the next thing George knew, Fred was telling him not to wait up.

Angelina came to stand by him, one hand propped on her hip. "Where do we start?"

"Uh, I guess I'll start stripping the bed. Do you want to handle the laundry?"

"Do you suppose there are any bugs or rats living amongst all this shite?"

"Only one way to find out."

The first hour was spent in methodical cleaning and sorting. George kept his eyes trained on whatever task was directly before him. He told himself that it was like doing inventory with Percy. But after awhile, Angelina had the laundry cleaned and boxed for donation, the rubbish binned, and the sheets they had agreed to burn. With the mattress bare, the floor clear, and the drawers emptied, it was time to deal with Fred's things. The personal items that had memories attached.

There had never been many childhood mementos. In the Burrow, everything from toys to broomsticks was passed down from one child to the next so that no one had a memory of who had it first. The few things that were Fred's were in a box in the attic at home. His wand was in George's bedside table. His gold watch had gone back to Mum for safekeeping. Who knew, maybe one day George would have a son and he'd ask for that watch back. Regardless, what was in this room were things Fred had accumulated since moving out.

For a moment, George just stared at the top of Fred's bureau. In his mind's eye, George could picture his twin at the end of a workday or after a night out, emptying his pockets and depositing the whole lot unceremoniously onto the dresser top. George picked up an expensive stickpin and shook his head. Fred had a niffler's love for shiny things, but he'd been careless with his possessions. The dresser top was littered with coins, posh watches, and jeweled stickpins—the kind of thing a careful man would tuck away. Not Fred, though, never Fred.

With a wide swipe of his arm, George swept it all into a box. He'd sell the watches and stickpins, donate the money to the Sirius Black Memorial Orphanage. These were the mementos of a young man dazzled by new money, but they held no memories for George. Opening the top left drawer—the one he'd been avoiding— George plucked out a battered journal stuffed with parchments. All of their plans and dreams written out in a hasty scrawl. George would keep this.

"Oh!"

Spinning around, George found Angelina kneeling on the floor with a box in hand.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked. He almost wanted her to say she was so that he would have an excuse leave this mess for another day.

"No…I just found some…photos." She held up the box and he could see an assortment of pictures inside.

Almost against his will, George sat beside Angelina on the carpet. Pulling out a photo, he saw himself and Fred in Egypt wearing fezzes and holding up dung beetles. George couldn't help but laugh around the lump in his throat. Charlie had taken that photo right before they put those beetles in Bill's soup.

"Look how young you were," Angelina said.

George leaned back against the bed. "Yeah, almost carefree there. It would be two years before Harry witnessed the return of V-Voldemort. Still, it was right after Ginny was dragged into the Chamber of Secrets."

Angelina leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand comfortingly on his thigh. The two of them rummaged through the box, laughing tearily over shared memories. Fred had been the kind of man to always look forward. He was never interested in talking about the past or getting sentimental over a cup of tea. George doubted Fred ever looked through this box, yet of all the things in this room, these photos meant the most to George. It was their life together in sepia tones and happy smiles.

"Look," Angelina said and pulled a photo out of the box. "It's us, at the Yule Ball."

From the depths of the picture, Fred and George crowded around Angelina. On George's side were his dates, Alicia and Lee, and on Fred's side was Katie and the arm of her date who had been cut from the picture. Some Ravenclaw twat if George remembered correctly. The group of them smiled and waved, then photo George would sneak a look of longing at Angelina before the whole thing started over again. Merlin, she'd been beautiful that night in deep purple and her braids arranged in some sort of complicated up do.

"Who took this picture?" George asked.

"Colin, remember? He was underage and couldn't go into the Ball, but he stood outside the Great Hall with his camera all night."

"Shite." George leaned his head back and covered his eyes. "This picture is a bloody tragedy."

"Oh, but I had so much fun that night."

From between his fingers, George looked at Angelina. She was holding the photo in both hands, her head bent over it. There was a smile on her face, but the kind that was wistful rather than happy. In the lead up to the Ball, Fred and George had nearly come to blows over who would ask Angelina. She was so damned fit, they all fancied her. Fred hadn't won their battle of wills, he'd just been faster off the mark. Still, even as the words left Fred's mouth, George had been saying silent prayers that Angie would decline. Only she hadn't. George had been sixteen-years-old at that moment and he'd thought it was the worst of his life. Still, he'd made like it was no big deal because what else could he do?

"Did you kiss Fred?" George asked. Fred had told Lee and George the next morning that he had a proper snogging session with Angelina and that he'd even copped a feel, but George knew from Angelina that at least half of that wasn't true.

She looked up at him, then back at the photo. "I did. Fred had shown me a good time, I reckon I thought that was what I was supposed to do at the end of the night. I hadn't had many dates before that and I was still…figuring it out."

"So, why didn't you go out with him again?"

"Well, in part because I knew he lied about me to you lot." Angelina gave him a hard look.

"Hey, Fred's sins, not mine."

"You believed it."

Guilty as charged, but George wasn't going to admit that aloud.

"Besides." Angelina shrugged. "There was no…spark. Do you know what I mean? The entire night whilst we danced, it just felt like I was out with a mate. It could have been Katie or Alicia and I would have had just as much fun."

If it were possible to smirk on the inside, then that was bloody well what George was doing. Angelina had just compared her date with Fred to a hen party. This made up for that awful moment all those years ago.

"Listen, George," Angelina said, and sniffed. "I know there's more to do, but I've got a-a thing tonight…"

"Go. I'll get Ron and Percy around here tomorrow to finish up. If I play it just right, I can get ickle Ronniekins to do the cleaning."

"And you'll be alright?"

George shrugged one shoulder. "This wasn't as bad as I had imagined actually."

She started to return the photo, but George held up a hand. "Keep it."

"Are you sure?" Angelina asked.

"I've got a whole box full."

"Cheers." Angelina stood, smoothing a hand down her trouser leg.

George followed suit. "It's the least I can do for all your help today. In fact, let me buy you dinner."

"That would be great, but I've got a thing, remember?"

"Oh, your _thing_ won't be nearly as fun as me."

Angelina smiled. "Probably not, but then, what is?"

She hugged him. Merlin, Angie gave the best hugs. It was, George thought, because she was so strong. Her arms around his shoulders were tight. Or maybe it was because the skin of her cheek was smooth where it pressed against his neck. Definitely the feel of all her curves snug against his body was an important component. There was never a time when George wasn't aware of Angelina's body when she was this close to him. It wasn't even sexual. Well, it wasn't always sexual. But at the moment, it bloody was. His hands were on her back, but Merlin he was all too aware of how near her round arse was and the muscles under her t-shirt and the warmth and scent of _her. _They were the same height so they met up in all the best ways: breasts to chest, pelvis to pelvis, thigh to thigh.

"Send an owl if you need me, yeah?" Angelina said and started to pull away.

"Don't go yet." George tightened his arms around her, taking a moment to really enjoy her body against his. The whole day had been a maudlin mess, it was time to break the mood a bit. With a wicked grin, George added, "I think I can almost feel your nipples through your top."

"George!" She wrenched away and whacked him on the arm. Damn, Angie hit hard. "You cannot!"

"Maybe not, but I can see their outline now."

She punched him in the shoulder. There was no shame in wincing, George lost all feeling in his arm. She covered her tits with her hands, which did nothing to help George's growing erection. Still, the image of her nipples poking against her t-shirt like eager little puppies would live in George's mind for a long time.

"I'll see you once you've learned to behave!" Angelina shouted from the other room right before George heard the door slam shut.

George hoped she didn't mean that, otherwise they were likely to never see each other again.

oOo

Angelina should have returned to her flat to get ready for her date. Her hair was protected under a red bandanna, but there was a layer of dust covering her face and she was all sweaty. Instead, she found herself in Scotland walking up the dirt path that led to Red's Wood, the overgrown farmhouse Oliver and Katie called home.

As girls at Hogwarts, Katie had often brought out Angelina's competitive side. They weren't quite in the same league, but Katie was good, and, more importantly, she bloody hated losing. It was enough to push Angelina to excel. Yet, as much as Angelina loved Katie, the two of them had always needed Alicia's mellow presence to buffer their more vibrant personalities. The war had changed that, too.

There were some things that only Katie understood. Things that they couldn't share with Alicia. Like how hard it was to be strong in the face of so much grief. How hard it was to always know the right thing to do. How sometimes, and it was shameful to admit this, but sometimes Angelina wanted to be a normal girl. She wanted to joke around with George and not have the specter of Fred hovering nearby. But most of all, sometimes Angelina needed a shoulder to cry on, too.

Angelina passed through the sturdier wards near the house and came upon the garden. There was a white picket fence, clumps of thistle squatting like tiny sentries around the gate. Katie was sitting at a wrought iron table with a teacup, but she stood when she saw Angelina come up the path.

"What brings you all this way?"

"Hello to you, too," Angelina returned.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you of course." Katie hugged her taller friend. "But I thought you had a hot date tonight. Want a cuppa?"

She was Summoning another mug before Angelina could answer.

"Where's Wood?" Angelina asked, sitting at the table.

Katie filled the mug from the nearby teapot. "Upstairs with the baby. We took him up on the broomstick for the first time today. He loved it!"

"Imagine," Angelina mocked and Katie giggled.

"Regardless, Bobby's knackered. Oliver is supposed to be putting him in his cot for a nap, but he's been gone an age. If I go upstairs right now, I'll probably find them both asleep with Bobby across Oliver's chest."

"Horror!"

Katie giggled again, but she was sliding sheepish looks at Angelina. "I know. All I do is talk about the baby."

"I don't mind," Angelina said truthfully. "I mean, he _is_ a cute little guy."

"He is," Katie agreed. "But you did not come all this way before your date to talk about Bobby and Oliver. And you aren't here for pre-date wardrobe advice, obviously."

Katie motioned to herself, wearing jeans, an oversized Puddlemere jumper, and trainers, her golden hair in a ponytail. Even before her wretchedly disgusting domestic bliss, no one could accuse Katie of being a fashion plate. She gave exactly two shites about how she looked.

"True," Angelina conceded. "I-I was helping George clean out Fred's room today. And look…"

From her pocket, Angelina pulled the photo George had given her.

Katie gasped. "Look how young we all were."

"It was just four years ago."

Tears rolled down Angelina's cheeks. She'd had to make a hurried escape from George's flat or risk losing it in front of him. When she was seventeen and missing Quidditch, she could have killed Fred for the lies he'd told about her. It had been Alicia, full of fiery indignation, who'd carried the tale to Angelina. She'd been hurt and angry. Fred's blasted lies had tarnished what had quickly become a golden memory for Angelina. Seeing that photo brought it all back.

Fred had looked absolutely ridiculous in his dated, puce dress robes, but he acted as if he were sporting the finest, bespoke suit money could buy. He'd given Angelina flowers that did not squirt her in the face, offered his arms to gallantly lead her to dinner. The meal was full of snappy, flirty banter that kept Angelina laughing until Dumbledore called everybody's attention to the dais. After watching the awkwardness that was Harry Potter on a dance floor, Fred had led Angelina out for the most energetic evening of her life.

At no point in the evening had Angelina taken Fred's flirtations seriously, but when it was over, she'd kissed him with just a little bit of tongue. That kiss had been proof to what she already knew: she and Fred were just friends. After, she'd run upstairs to relive the whole night in the comfort of her dorm room with her two best mates.

The lies Fred had told made Angelina forget all of that. To be honest, they had fueled some of her ire in training the next year. She couldn't make people not believe Fred's words, but she could punish him for having said them in the first place—and George for believing.

"I didn't want to lose it in front of George," Angelina confided to Katie.

Katie gave Angelina a sympathetic look. "Oh, Angie..."

"It's just—He was having a hard time of it. He'd been avoiding going through Fred's things for over a year and-and I didn't want to burden him."

"You didn't want him to see you break," Katie replied knowingly.

Angelina hiccupped a few sobs, then buried her face in her hands.

"Ang…" Katie got up and wrapped her arms around her friend's shoulders.

"I had so much fun with my friend Fred at the Ball, then he went and ruined it," Angelina sobbed, swiping angrily at her eyes. "I-I just wish he was still around to be angry with. I-I m-miss him!"

"Shh, love, I know. We all do, you know."

"But not like George does."

"Do you think George wants to be the only one to remember or mourn Fred?"

"You're twenty-years-old, Katie, quit with the wise motherly shite. George needs me to be strong, he needs a shoulder to cry on."

"Well, for your information, the wise motherly shite suits me," Katie said without heat. "But you know, I'm Oliver's strength when he needs to be weak. The reason that it works is because I let him return the favor, or at least that's what I'm learning."

"And what happens if you're both weak?" Angelina said. "And how does that apply to George and I? Oliver is your husband. George is just my…George."

"You'd be surprised."

oOo

Angelina had made George buy a desk for the flat. He liked to drag his notes and designs upstairs after the shop closed, and Angie said he needed a proper place to work. She was right, as usual. So, he'd set up a little quasi-office for himself in the corner of the lounge. That's where George was sitting when he heard it again.

The bloody headboard banging against the wall, accompanied by moaning.

Looking in the direction of Ron's bedroom, George snapped his quill. He'd known, when his ickle brother asked to move in, that Ron was looking for a place to shag Hermione. What George failed to realize was that, beginning just two weeks after Hermione arrived home, these shagfests would become a nearly daily occurrence or that neither one of them knew how to perform a decent bloody silencing charm. Hermione was the brightest witch of her age!

Much to his disgust, George had to admit that maybe Hermione was just too eager to get inside Ron's pants to give such small niceties much thought. One look at that hair, and George had always figured there was a wild woman under those high-necked jumpers. He just wished that she spent less time getting in touch with her inner wanton in his bleeding flat.

Grabbing his wand, George slammed out of his place and into Diagon Alley. July was on its way, but the night air in Wizarding London was still brisk. It was exactly what George needed. He wound his way around to Angelina's street. He saw in the _Daily Prophet_ that she was called up to play for England's national Quidditch team in their summer test matches, and he thought maybe he'd take her around for a congratulatory drink. Then, see where things led.

The trouble was that George was pretty sure that Angelina had come to see him as her charity case. He was pathetic, wasn't he? Always leaning on her, crying and carrying on. Somehow, he had to make her see him as a man again. Somebody who needed more than her pity. How he was going to do that, he had no idea.

Girls had always been Fred's thing. Not girlfriends, but a steady string of hot witches willing to get handsy in some dark corner of the castle. Usually, those girls had a friend who was happy to do the same with George. After they blew out of Hogwarts like a ripe fart, Fred had a girlfriend of sorts for about four months. It had been two dates and bye-bye virginity. George had been slower off the mark, as usual.

Traipsing up the stairs to Angelina's flat, he rapped on the door and waited.

Despite his recent bout of love 'em and leave 'em, George did not think he was too bad in the sack. There had been a few girls throughout Hogwarts and after that had been happy to show George what to put where. It was just getting them to see beyond the lovable prankster to the hot stud that was the tricky part.

Angelina opened the door. In hindsight, George would've thought he'd notice that on a Thursday night past nine o'clock, Angelina was wearing a figure skimming red number when she opened the door. But he didn't.

"Oi, I need you to save me," George blathered before Angie could say a word.

"George?"

"They're at it again, Ang. Screwing like pair of rabbits under a love potion and making so much racket I couldn't think. I mean it's all 'Yes, Ron!' this and 'Right there, Hermione!' that. And you'd think that _Hermione_ would be a difficult name to scream out in the heat of the moment, but—"

"George!"

He looked up at her. That was George's first clue that something was amiss. Angelina was wearing heels. They were shiny and black and made her three inches taller than him. Her hair was always flawless, but now it was coiled up elegantly, and she had what looked like woolly caterpillars stuck to her eyelashes. She was beautiful, but that wasn't the reason George's heart moved into his gullet. Looking past her into the flat, George could see a bottle of wine, two glasses, and some bloke.

"Er—"

Sighing deeply, Angie opened the door wider and motioned inside. George's brain told his feet to scarper, but they weren't bloody obeying. The next thing he knew, he was standing inside Angelina's posh, spotless flat in jeans that were too baggy and an old Gryffindor jumper being re-introduced to the all-too-dapper Adrian Pucey.

Bastard.

* * *

A/N2: See you next Tuesday!


	6. Epiphany: Chapter 3

Author's Note: Things are about to get bumpy. Also, George gets sweary, and people talk about sex in a frank nature. Enjoy!

* * *

Epiphany: Chapter 3

"How could you not tell me that Angelina was seeing fucking Adrian Pucey!"

George stomped past Lee into the flat he shared with Alicia. The whole thing with Angelina and that Slytherin had been awkward. They'd stood around staring at each other and talking about the bloody weather. Pathetic! But George had thought if he stuck around long enough, Angie would offer him tea. It's not like he wanted to leave her there, alone, with that git, now did he? George had been wrong. Angelina had nearly kicked him out the door. Or maybe it was more of a "see you tomorrow", but it felt like a kick in the arse.

"George," Lee said, and shook his head. "It's damn near ten o'clock. You can't just show up unannounced—I have to work tomorrow. And, frankly, I was getting it on with the old lady."

"Nice, Jordan," Alicia said. She walked into the lounge wearing a blue dressing gown, her dark hair falling nearly to her waist. "What's this about Angelina and Adrian Pucey?"

"You didn't know?" George asked. He ignored the part about interrupting the two of them. Was everybody getting laid but him?

Alicia shook her head. "Tea?"

"Don't make this wanker tea," Lee shouted.

"Where are your manners?" Alicia replied, putting the kettle on.

"Yeah, Lee." George smirked. "Where _are_ your manners?"

Lee glowered at him.

"Now, what's the matter, George?" Alicia asked.

Over tea, into which Lee had poured a tumbler full of Firewhisky, George explained about his night. Starting with the horror of the _Live: Ron and Hermione Get It On_ show to the utter shock of finding Angelina cozied up with some Slytherin, and how all of that resulted in George cock blocking his old mate. The last part was said with a smirk.

"Angelina Johnson is seeing a _Slytherin_?" Lee asked, spitting out the last word. "And an old Quidditch rival? Is she under the Imperious?"

"Say," George said, sitting forward in his chair in the lounge. "I hadn't though of that. Of course! That explains it. I'll just go back and show that—"

"Stop it, the both of you," Alicia hissed with a withering glare for each of them. "Angie is a grown woman more than capable of making her own choices—even romantic ones. Besides, Pucey's not a bad guy."

"How can you say that?" George demanded. "He-he's a snake!"

"George, you played against him at school, you know that Adrian Pucey isn't like the others. He never took cheap shots on the pitch, and he didn't bully us in the hallways like the rest of the Slytherin team. I mean, I always thought he was snooty, but a nice bloke. I'm a bit surprised that he would date a half-blood though."

"See, he's a dick."

"Oh, stuff it, George. You're just jealous."

George flapped his lips. "I am not! You-you take that back."

"I'm torn," Lee said, looking from George to Alicia. "On one hand, George looks like a bloody trout right now and _that's_ hilarious. On the other hand, Angelina is seeing a Slytherin, and that's foul."

"Grow up," Alicia said. She stood and walked into the kitchen. "We aren't in school any more, we have to get past these petty House rivalries."

"Petty?" Lee exploded. "Excuse me, but I seem to recall a whole boat load of quite grown up Slytherins trying to murder us last year."

"And Pucey wasn't one of them, was he? In fact, he fought on our side in the Battle, didn't he? _And_ McGonagall trusts him enough to make him the new Defense professor, and that's all I need to know about him."

George squirmed in his seat. Damn, he should have known better than to take this to Lee and Alicia. Obviously, Lee harbored the correct amount of outrage and bullshite, but damn Alicia. She was always so level headed. Leave it to her to punch holes in all of George's arguments by actually being reasonable. Maybe Ron would have been a better choice. George could depend on his ickle brother to be justly irrational about all things Slytherin. But then there was Hermione. Bloody hell, but the number of females in his life was really messing up George's ability to be a stubborn git.

"Alright," George said. "If there's nothing wrong with Angelina dating a Slytherin, then why didn't she tell you about it?"

Alicia flinched, then looked away. "I don't know."

oOo

"Sorry I'm late," Katie said breathlessly the moment she tumbled out of the Leaky Caldron's Floo and staggered to the table where her two friends were sitting. "Bobby is teething and I couldn't get him settled. Oliver said he has it covered, but I think that means he'll just Floo-call his mother and I know that's a good thing, but I feel terrible for leaving him and—"

"Katie," said Alicia, and smoothed a wayward strand of the other woman's golden hair. "Don't worry yourself, we just got here."

"We were going to order the brunch special," Angelina said.

Katie sighed, slumping in her chair. "Banging idea."

Trying to find time when all three of them could get together had taken a month's worth of planning. Angelina was due to report to camp with the English national team in two days, Alicia was running her parents's beauty salon, and Katie and Oliver had just come back from a quick holiday. This grown up business was getting harder and harder to negotiate.

"George came around the flat in an utter tizzy the other night," Alicia said as she handed their menus back to waitress. "He said you're seeing Adrian Pucey."

Angelina blushed.

"Ooohhh, how is that going?" Katie asked. "Have you shagged him yet?"

"What? Katie! It's been three dates. What kind of slag do you take me for?"

Katie shrugged. "I'm just saying that a good shag would do you a world of good."

Angelina gaped at her friend.

"So you knew about Pucey?" Alicia asked Katie, then turned to Angelina. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Once more, Angelina found herself at a loss for words. Why hadn't she told Alicia? Merlin, there were so many excuses. Maybe because Alicia had fancied Adrian a bit at school, or because Angelina wasn't sure where this thing with him was going, but in truth Angelina was just out of the habit of telling Alicia about every part of her life. Over the last year, they had all taken great pains to protect Alicia from things that might upset her.

"It's just," Angelina started, but stopped. Reaching across the table, she covered Alicia's hand with hers. "I should have, but it's been such a whirlwind I haven't known what to think."

"But you must like him if you've gone out on three dates already," Alicia said with a smile, placing her other hand on top of Angelina's.

Angelina felt herself blush again. "I-I reckon I do. He's such a gentleman, even when he flirts. He has a way of making me feel excited and desirable instead of…harassed."

Like George did.

"Oh, and the way he kisses," Angelina continued.

"Finally, we're getting to the good part!" Katie said and leaned forward.

Angelina rolled her eyes, but was happy to continue. "He's even a gentlemen when he kisses. He's careful not to take any liberties without my permission, which is a nice change."

"And what have you permitted?" Katie asked with a giggle.

Oh, it was all too easy to get carried away with Adrian. His lips had a magic all their own, and the next thing Angelina knew, his hand would be on her ribcage and he was whispering in her ear. His fingers were rather magical, too. Sometimes Angelina worried that she wasn't moving fast enough. This was an adult relationship, and despite the easy access to liquor, and the fact that their snogging sessions happened in the rather clean and comfortable environs of her sitting room rather than some dark alcove, it still seemed like they were just reliving their teenage liaisons. That was another thing Adrian was good at, easing away her fear and awkwardness. He didn't expect too much from her. It wasn't just that he was reserved, he was holding back.

"You are such a bad influence," Angelina told Katie, wrinkling her nose.

"I am a respectable wife and mother," Katie replied with a smirk.

"And a year ago you were a teenager up the duff."

Katie giggled. "I still think you should shag him."

"Can you believe this one?" Angelina asked Alicia.

"Actually," Alicia said, "I agree with her. It's been a long time since you've been in any kind of relationship."

"Ugh, not you, too! Fine. Let's talk about something else. What are you going to do with the salon when you go back to St. Mungo's?"

Both of Angelina's friends went silent, and Alicia's eyes slid away.

"Did I miss something?" Angelina asked in a low voice.

"Um, well," Katie started.

"I decided not to return to the Healer program," Alicia said over Katie's mutterings. Alicia's voice came out with an edge to it as she stared Angelina directly in the eye.

Angelina's fingers tightened painfully around the edge of the table. "Why? We talked about this just—" She stopped. When was it they talked the Healer program last? "You were getting your paperwork together."

"I've thought it over," Alicia said. She shook her head like they were talking about buying the blue frock instead of the pink one. "It's been two years since I dropped out of the program, three since I've been in school, I'll never catch up with the other apprentices."

Twisted, confused emotions whirled around inside of Angelina. She glanced at Katie, who wore a pained expression, her arms wrapped around her middle. Angelina was angry, but she didn't know at whom. She was frustrated, but again, she didn't know where to place that feeling.

"When has that ever held you back?" Angelina challenged. "You're brilliant, you're a hard worker, it's just a matter—"

"What?" Alicia cut off, forcing a smile. "I can bust my arse for the next two years to be bottom of the class? Or maybe they would make me start all over again?"

"Would that be the worst thing that could happen? Bottom of the class or not, you'll still be a Healer. It's all you've ever wanted!"

"Well, maybe I don't want it any more."

"Bollocks," Angelina spat.

"Angie," Katie started.

"No," Angelina snapped with a hard look at Katie. "Are you going to tell me that Alicia wants to stay in that bloody salon?" She turned on her other friend. "You've always hated that place."

"It's not so bad," Alicia said.

"You hate doing other people's hair. You hate customer service. You hate the gossip and pettiness."

"Oh, and St. Mungo's will be so different," Alicia returned.

"I don't understand why you are giving up on your dream!" Angelina fired back.

"Angelina!" Katie admonished.

"Life's been kind to you," Alicia said and stood up. "You got the career you always wanted, you can see your mum any time you like—even if she drives you mental. Now you even have the guy, and George Weasley waiting in the wings."

Angelina's cheeks stung as if she'd been slapped. All she could do was stare, open-mouthed, at Alicia. Inside, Angelina's mind was racing almost as fast as her heart as she tried to find the dignity to square her shoulders and talk Alicia out of this nonsense.

"I'm sorry," Angelina stammered. "I'm ungrateful. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…but why does that mean you can't still have your dream?"

Alicia threw her napkin onto the table. "Maybe it's not my dream any more."

With that, Alicia walked out. For a moment, Angelina was frozen in place, utterly gob smacked. What had she just done? Her hands were shaking and there was a burning in her chest like a thousand shards of glass. Balling her hands shut, Angelina shoved them under the table to keep Katie from seeing.

"Dammit," Katie muttered and pushed away from the table. "I'm not very good at being the lynchpin of our little trio."

"You knew about this?" Angelina accused. Her breath hitched in her throat. _Not Katie's fault. _"Why didn't you talk some sense into her?"

"What is there to say? She isn't ready to move on."

"What does Lee say about this? Why isn't he pushing her in the right direction?"

"Angelina." Katie shook her head.

"What?" Tears burned at the back of Angelina's eyes. "She hates that salon, Katie. Always has."

"And now it's the last bit of her parents that she has."

"So she should just cling to the past? That's not what Harold and Sharon would have wanted for her."

"Does it matter what they want anymore?" Katie burst out. "They wanted to show defiance to that bloody Commission instead of damn well going to the Continent like I did. All they got for their stubbornness is dead and now Alicia has no one left, except for us and ruddy Lee Jordan. I don't like that Alicia is wasting away in her parents' old salon, but I find a way to respect her decisions because she needs me to. And you're going to have to do the same."

Some terrible emotion that Angelina couldn't name clogged her throat. "I hate this."

"I do, too." Katie crouched beside Angelina's chair. "I'm going to go find Alicia. You take care of the food?"

Angelina watched Katie go.

oOo

After closing up the shop, George wandered up the stairs to his flat. It had two entrances, the one from the back of the building, but also one from inside. Quite handy really, especially at the end of a long day. All he wanted was a shower and a bottle of Butterbeer. Maybe later he'd get around to ordering take away and send an owl to Angelina at camp.

As it turned out, dinner was taken care of. His flat had been invaded, but at least the invaders had brought pizza and Butterbeer. Ron and Hermione sat side by side on the sofa with plates. Harry was on the floor with Ginny in his lap. Little Luna Lovegood was perched on the desk chair, her large eyes peering around the room as if she, and she alone, spied a rare animal flitting about, until they zoned in on George.

"Where's Longbottom?" George asked by way of greeting, slamming the door behind him. "One short of a regular D.A. meeting, aren't you?"

"Oh no," Luna said airily. "The D.A. is much larger than six."

"He pulled night duty," Ron answered, ignoring Luna altogether.

"George!" Ginny said with a bright smile. "I've hardly seen you."

"Don't get up," George said. "I'm sure your bum is all that hides Potter's hard on."

Harry, at least, had the good grace to blush. Not so much for George's devil of a sister.

"Since you've invaded my living space, I get pizza, right?" George snagged two slices before anybody could answer. "This isn't going to be a regular occurrence, is it?"

"We're flatmates," Ron said, and got another slice for himself. "That means I get to have my friends over."

"Common courtesy says you should inform me before you throw a party." George flopped into the chair.

"We'll remember that for next time," Hermione said.

"Ah, Hermione, cheers. Does that mean more than your toothbrush will be moving in?"

Hermione blushed, but Ron looked as if he'd like to kill George on the spot.

"As it happens," Ginny said. "We are celebrating."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You are looking at the newest Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies."

A genuine smile broke out across George's face. "That's great! They're a wild bunch up there, but Angie will love having you around."

"Hm," Ginny said with a knowing look. "I tell you my news and the first person you think of is Angelina Johnson. Interesting."

The tip of George's ear turned red.

"I've been thinking," Luna announced.

Bloody hell, George had completely forgotten Luna was there.

"I would like to lose my virginity to you, George."

Butterbeer came out of George's nose. Holy shite, that stung. He coughed, and pounded a fist against his chest. He stood up, then he sat down. Bloody hell, what had just happened?

"Um," George said. "Um." It bore repeating.

"Luna!" Hermione shrieked.

Ron was tittering like a schoolgirl beside Hermione. Harry, meanwhile, looked like he'd swallowed the Snitch.

"You can't just blurt out these things," Hermione said severely.

"You can't? I've given it some thought, and now seems an appropriate time. You and Ginny lost your virginities last summer. Most of the girls in the D.A. are having sex with somebody, and they all like it very much. Sex is a natural part of life, and I would like to experience it with somebody I know before I leave on the expedition to South America in August."

"But why George?" Harry asked.

"Neville was my first choice. He's always been so kind to me, but Ginny said Hannah would be quite upset."

"I should think," Hermione huffed.

"But why? It's just sex," Luna reasoned dreamily. "I don't wish to take Neville away from Hannah, I just want to share this experience with him."

"That makes no sense," Hermione argued. "Sex is an important part of a relationship between two people who are committed to each other."

"Not always."

"Getting back to Harry's question," Ron interrupted. The wanker had a shite-eating grin on his face. "Why George?"

"Ginny said I should choose somebody unattached. Somebody that I knew, and was attracted to. George is quite attractive."

"Cheers?" George squeaked.

"Well to each his own," Ron said, and smirked. "But you _have_ heard about George's reputation, haven't you?"

"I've heard that he's a bad lover, yes," Luna said.

George sank down into the chair. For the first time in his life, he was glad that Fred wasn't there.

"I figure he needs some practice and instruction, just like I do. George, do you know where the clitoris is?"

That pronouncement was met with dead silence, followed by a burst of laughter.

That was it. George was dead, and he'd obviously gone to hell. There was just no other explanation for it. He could not possibly be living through this mortifyingly embarrassing conversation. The fates were simply not that cruel, were they? George remembered about his dead twin, and decided that they were, in fact, that cruel. Which meant he was probably alive, and that Loony Lovegood really had offered him her virginity.

"So, what say you, George?" Ron asked with a smirk.

"Ron, honestly!" Hermione scolded.

"Yes, George, would you like to have sex with me?" Luna said with such wide-eyed innocence that one would think she was asking for an ice cream from Fortescue's before the Death Eaters ransacked it and killed the old man.

"Um," George said. What did he say? "That's really…I'm honored…Let me think about it."

Then George sprinted for his room and slammed the door.

* * *

A/N2: See you next Tuesday!


	7. Epiphany: Chapter 4

Author's Note: I have a busy day Tuesday, so I'm posting a little early. Before we get started, thank you to all of you have Favorited or Followed this story. I hope you continue to enjoy, and I would love to hear from you so don't be afraid to review. Secondly, expect more frank talk of sex throughout the rest of the fic. Lastly, prepare your "Poor George" now…

Disclaimer: It all belongs to the wonderful JK Rowling.

* * *

Epiphany: Chapter 4

To say that George was at sixes and sevens would be an understatement. He'd lain awake most of the night, reliving that mortifying conversation. His first thought was no, of course he wasn't going to shag Luna Lovegood. She was his baby sister's best mate, for Merlin's sake! He was pretty sure there was some rule about that somewhere. And it wasn't like he was attracted to Luna, was he? George had trouble looking at her objectively. He'd known her since she was an odd and grubby little girl who was perpetually barefoot. She'd grown up pretty, he reckoned.

No. _No_. That was all there was to it. He, George Fabian Weasley, could not possibly shag Luna Whatever-Her-Middle-Name-Was Lovegood. Now, how was he to let her down easily?

George had no idea where to begin. He didn't even know who to turn to. Lee would just take the piss. Ron was definitely out. Bill was a gamble—he probably knew what to do, but he'd take the piss before dispensing advice. In this confused state, George found himself standing on Percy's doorstep early Saturday morning.

It was times like these that George was glad to have so many older brothers.

Yet, it was Audrey who opened the door.

"Have you any idea what time it is?" She was wearing a pink dressing gown over what looked like Percy's pajama shirt that hung nearly to her knees.

A sense a déjà vu came over George.

"I need advice," he blurted. "And before I open the shop in an hour."

"Percy's in the shower." She wandered away, tying her dressing gown. "He just got back from his run, and let me tell you there is no time of day I like better than just following Percy's shower after his Saturday morning run. This had better be good."

Bloody hell, George really was the only person on Earth not getting laid. Well, him and Luna Lovegood presumably.

Audrey flopped face down onto the sofa without offering George tea. Apparently, the early hour and disruption of her plans severely diminished Audrey's ability to play hostess. Meanwhile, George had pulled on his work robes before he'd even properly dried off and hurried out the door. He was a might peckish and could do with a bowl of cereal at the very least. Then again, it was his brother's flat, why was he standing on ceremony?

George was just rifling through the cabinets—leave it to Percy to only have granola on hand—when he heard the bathroom door open.

"Put your pants on, Percy," Audrey called. "Your brother's here."

There was a beat of silence, then, "Bloody hell!"

No more than five, maybe seven minutes tops, passed while Percy dressed. It felt more like an eternity. George did not have the time to spare. Sure, Verity could prep the shop for opening, but Saturday mornings were always a crush. If George wasn't there by the time the doors opened, Verity was going to quit on him. Again. She was the best damn shop girl he had, so George kept offering her more money to come back. Dammit, but she'd be partner at this rate. And to make this blasted morning worse, he was shoveling handfuls of granola into his mouth and Audrey was giving him the evil eye.

"Alright, George, to what do I owe this honor?" Percy asked as he walked out of the bedroom fully dressed with his hair combed and watch on his wrist.

No time for small talk.

"Luna Lovegood wants to have sex with me."

"What?!" Audrey shot up on the couch.

"You heard me! I'm not saying it again."

"And-and how do you feel about this?" Percy asked, shoving his glasses up his nose.

"Feel? I don't even know. How am I supposed to feel?"

"Honored?" Audrey suggested. "Desired?"

George thought about it a moment, then, "Not bloody likely."

"How do you know this?" Percy asked. He sank onto the sofa as if his long legs no longer wished to support him.

"She bloody well told me."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. In front of Ginny and Harry and Ron and Hermione, no less. Oh, and she's a virgin."

"Really?" Percy shook his head. "But why you?"

"Well, mostly because Neville effing Longbottom has a girlfriend."

"Hm, well, you being second choice does make sense."

"Cheers, wanker," George muttered.

"And you don't want to have sex with her, correct?" Percy asked.

"To think—you were Head Boy."

"Why not?" Audrey asked.

"What do you mean?" George demanded. "She's my little sister's best mate."

"There's a rule about that, I'm sure of it," Percy said.

"You said Ginny was there," Audrey said. "What did she say about all of this?"

For a moment, George stared at Audrey as he thought back to the conversation. Ginny had been uncharacteristically quiet on the subject. However, Luna had said that Ginny advised her on who to choose. Did that mean Ginny already knew that Luna would proposition George? Bloody hell, did that mean Ginny approved?

George shoved that thought back into its box, marked it as untouchable, and buried it under a handful of other traumas never to be visited again.

"Just tell me how to let her down gently, and then we can forget all about this conversation," George snapped.

"I think you should go through with it," Audrey said.

George gaped. "Percy, tell your girlfriend she's barking."

"Why do you think that?" Percy asked her instead.

"Luna was a few years behind me, but we were in the same House. I know people think she's mad, or at best dozy, but she isn't. Luna has very sound reasoning for what she believes and does. Just because you may not agree, doesn't change that. If Luna wants to lose her virginity to George, then she must have put a lot of thought into it."

For one moment, George considered that maybe he really should be honored by Luna's request and should give her the consideration of at least thinking it over. Then he decided that Audrey was obviously a raving lunatic. She was shagging Percy of all people!

"Yes, well, we are forgetting that I'm not bloody attracted to her," George huffed.

"Why not?" Audrey asked. "She's a pretty girl. Not your type obviously, but still pretty."

"What does that mean?" George asked. "I don't have a 'type'."

Audrey looked at him as if he'd just grown a second head out of the side of his neck. This whole conversation had been a complete bust. George should have known no good would come of seeking advice from Percy.

"Maybe you should talk to Ginny," Audrey snapped. She stood up and marched to the bedroom without another word.

oOo

Angelina popped into existence just outside the gates of Hogwarts. It was a bright, sunny summer day, though not all that warm. She was glad for the cardigan she'd thrown on over her vest before leaving camp that morning. It was her day off from training. The first match was that coming Saturday against Italy, and she felt her chances of being picked for the final team were pretty good.

"Hello!" Adrian stood by the gate. He waved shortly, then ran his hand through his black hair.

He was wearing Muggle jeans and a white button down with the tales hanging out. It was the most casual Angelina had seen Adrian, and the look suited him well. At his side sat a dog with a wispy coat of white covered in what looked like ginger freckles, and thick ears like mufflers. He whined, his tail thumping against the hard packed earth, but never left Adrian's side.

He reminded Angelina of George.

"I was surprised to get your owl," Adrian said, stuffing one hand into his jean's pocket.

Angelina's lips tucked up in the corners, one eyebrow cocked. "Was it a good surprise, or bad?"

"That's yet to be determined, isn't it?" He smiled boyishly.

It had not escaped Angelina's notice that Adrian Pucey was more complicated than he let on. He was more awkward than his dashing good looks suggested, and there was a hint of recklessness that his manners camouflaged. They were the same age, and yet Adrian's outward polish made him seem older, more capable. It was these cracks, these small hints at his inner self, that reminded Angelina that he was just as young as she was, and just as unsure of himself.

The dog whined, and they both laughed. With an easy smile and fluid muscles, Adrian bent to scratch him behind the ears. Angelina took a deep breath. Adrian's many layers might intrigue her, but it was his utter fitness, and undeniable kissing skills, that turned her knees week.

"What's his name?" Angelina asked. _Yes, think about the dog, you slag._ "Is he an English setter?"

"Yes," Adrian replied and fondled the dog's ears. "This is Merlin. Make your curtsey."

With Adrian's permission, the dog bounded forward, wiggling all over as Angelina leaned forward to pet him. Merlin was a ball of tail-wagging, paw-prancing joy that had Angelina laughing. The dog's big tongue swiped sloppily across her cheek, making Angelina rear back just in time to catch Adrian's looking down her top. Heat coiled low in her belly, sending spiky tingles to every nerve ending. Angelina fought to keep her cool, clearing her throat and smirking when their eyes met. Color flooded his cheeks.

"I'm—ah…" Adrian coughed, his eyes shooting skyward. "I'm surprised your sister didn't tell you about Merlin in any of her letters."

"Sadly, my sisters are cat people, but you don't want to talk about them."

"I might, cat people are the worst." He still wouldn't look at her.

"Don't let McGonagall hear you say that, or it'll be the sack for you."

"There is that risk, yes. She hisses every time Merlin comes around."

Surprised laughter burst out of Angelina. "Professor McGonagall does _not_ hiss."

"No." Adrian grinned, sneaking a look at Angelina from the corner of his eye. "That would be well below her dignity, but she has forbidden him from the Great Hall. Is there anyway we can pretend—"

"That you weren't being all pervy and checking out the girls?" Angelina finished, pointing to her breasts.

Adrian closed his eyes, his flush returning tenfold. "Yes, that."

"Absolutely not!"

"Then let me make up for it." He took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. Something in his posture changed just the smallest degree and he was suddenly the composed gentleman again. Offering his arm, Adrian smiled blandly. "Shall we?"

It was a remarkable transformation, but Angelina wanted the naughty boy back. He was easier to relate to than the polished veneer of the gentleman, though he had his advantages. Actually, Angelina rather thought she wanted to ruffle the gentleman's feathers, see if she could provoke that lustful gaze again. She didn't know what it said about her, but she wanted to be respected _and_ to be desired. Was there some middle ground where she could be both?

Ignoring his very proper elbow, Angelina grabbed his hand instead and waited, eyebrows raised, to see what his reaction would be. She wasn't disappointed. Carefully, Adrian's fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed. He called the dog, who rushed ahead of them through the gates, then tugged on Angelina's hand as they started the long walk up the castle.

"You seem comfortable with dogs," he commented, eyes on Merlin as he dodged from one dandelion clump to the next. "For the sister of cat people, that is."

Angelina laughed. "We're talking about dogs again?"

"Was there something else you wanted to talk about?" His voice was hoarse, his eyes flashing at her for a moment before returning to the path before him.

"Not at all." Angelina couldn't suppress a grin. "If you must know, we had a dog when I was small, until my parents divorced. Seraphina is my half-sister, you know?"

"The fact that you have different last names did tip me off." He smiled, and what could have been a sarcastic jab became light teasing. "Still, she looks like you."

"My other sister, Josephina, will be coming to Hogwarts this year. Sera should have started in '97, but Mum and Richard took the girls to Jamaica before school started, to wait out the war."

The mention of the war cast a pall over the two of them as the front door of Hogwarts came into view. The pebbles of the drive crunched under their feet, but the pair were silent. Angelina regretted bringing it up. She'd sought out Adrian as an escape, but here they walked in heavy silence, smothered under the weight of the war. From where Angelina was standing, it didn't seem as if there would ever be a time when the loss and pain of those years didn't tarnish everything.

Adrian turned to her at the steps that lead into the castle, a haunted look in his hazel eyes. Gently, he brushed his fingertips across her forehead as if pushing a stray hair aside. "I'm glad your family were safe."

"What have you planned for us today?" She touched the spot where his fingers had been.

"That's entirely up to you…I thought maybe you wouldn't want to fly…"

There was never a time Angelina didn't want to fly, if she were honest. Her dad had taught her to fly a broomstick early, but after the divorce it became a rare treat. Once she was at Hogwarts, with no bickering, controlling adults hovering over her, Angelina escaped to the broom shed at every possibility. Taking to the open skies gave her such a rush. Once she was in the air, it was as if all her worldly concerns slipped away. It called to her now, promising distraction in its wide open space and gusting winds, but Angelina didn't want to fly with Adrian. Not today at least.

"Show me your favorite place in the castle," Angelina said impetuously, skipping up the steps ahead of Adrian.

"Now or then?"

"You choose."

They entered the Great Hall, which was empty and cavernous. Angelina had never seen Hogwarts like this before, devoid of students. There was a silence in the building that it never knew during the school year, not even in the small hours of the morning when all should be sleeping. Of course, more than once, she'd been out of bounds with the twins, so she knew that there was almost always somebody in the Castle lurking about even when they shouldn't be.

"My goodness," Angelina said, looking up at the tall ceilings that seemed even larger than she remembered. Her voice echoed slightly. "You'd think it would seem smaller now, wouldn't you?"

"But it doesn't," Adrian agreed, his hand alighted on the small of her back. "It looms as large in real life as it does in our imaginations."

One corner of Angelina's mouth turned up, her eyebrow incredulous. "Are you a secret poet?"

"There is no such thing as a Slytherin poet."

The words were said dryly, but Adrian's cheeks flared with color. He was closer now, near enough that Angelina could make out the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Feeling bold, Angelina stood on tiptoe (oh, she liked the novelty of a taller man), and kissed him.

"This way," Adrian rasped, his eyes still closed. "Before Filch catches us."

Angelina laughed. "You're a professor, what do you care about Filch?"

"Yes, that may be, and perhaps when I'm forty I won't worry about Filch catching me in the Great Hall with a girl. Until then…"

Grabbing her hand, Adrian pulled her along to the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor, the dog's nails clicking against the stone floor as he trotted beside them. Angelina had helped with the post-battle clean up on the grounds of Hogwarts, and she'd been in the Great Hall last summer just before term began, but this was her first journey into the heart of the castle since the war ended. There wasn't a single sign that just a year ago, these halls lay in ruins, the walls blackened by soot and scorch marks, the paintings empty or smashed. It looked just as it had on Angelina's first day of class as an eleven-year-old, and yet completely different.

"Are we going to your classroom?" Angelina asked. It struck her that maybe Adrian was taking her to his office and her heart beat a little faster.

"The place where I spend my days being hexed by first and second years? Hardly."

Ahead of them, Merlin skidded to a halt, his hackles up and a low growl emanating from his chest.

"Meow!"

A mangy, dust-colored body slinked into sight.

"Bloody hell," Adrian muttered. He tapped his wand against the knob of a nearby door, which swung open. "In here!"

Angelina giggled as she let herself be pulled into a darkened room, the door clicking shut behind her. "You really are afraid of Filch."

She had her back against the door, Adrian's tall form looming over her. He raked his hand through his hair, looking very irritated, and incredibly sexy. Angelina snagged his shirt, pulling him closer.

"The man treats me like student tracking mud on his floor," he murmured, leaning his arm against the door above her head.

"I'm sure he wants nothing more than to give you a month of cleaning toilet bowls."

Reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, Angelina kissed him. There was the added thrill of sneaking around the school to spike the desire coiling in her belly. It was that old forbidden feeling she used to get when Quidditch ended and she'd mess around with some bloke who fancied her more than she fancied him.

Adrian's hands settled on her hips, his thumbs brushing slow circles against her through her jeans. It was a slow seduction that left Angelina breathless, tingly, and wishing there weren't so many clothes between her skin and his fingers. Still holding him close, Angelina toyed with the opening of his shirt, her fingers brushing over warm skin and eliciting a groan from the both of them. Emboldened, Adrian's hand traveled up her front, only to have his quest was interrupted by a low whine and a cold nose being crammed between their bodies.

Laughing, Angelina patted Merlin's head.

"You're not helping," Adrian complained to the dog, his body still leaning against Angelina's. "I should have left you to Mrs. Norris's tender mercies."

"So, where are we?" Angelina asked, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Pulling back, Adrian flicked his wand at a wall sconce that flared to life, revealing what looked like a storeroom. Boxes were stacked all over the place, a few chairs with ripped seats or broken legs. Another flick, and the boxes moved aside to reveal three long windows with deep sills gilded by sunlight.

"Nearly every Defense professor left something behind in their haste to leave Hogwarts, and this is where it was all crammed for safekeeping." Adrian moved to the windows. "There's an entire box marked 'turbans'."

Moving to his side, Angelina saw a courtyard below. It was a small square with rose arbors and urns of flowers everywhere. In one corner was a table and chairs, in another a fountain. It was beautiful, but unfamiliar. Hogwarts had a secret garden? She wondered if Fred and George knew about it. They always seemed familiar with every nook and cranny of the Castle.

"Why bring me here?" Angelina asked.

"You asked to see my favorite place in the castle."

"Some musty, old, forgotten room?"

"Perfect for hiding." He stood framed by one window, a hand braced against the wall.

"Obviously. Did you bring a lot of girls up here?"

Adrian grinned, but shook his head. "You seriously overestimate my prowess with the opposite sex."

"So if you weren't off for a secret snog, what were you hiding from?" Angelina asked, sitting on the window ledge, her thigh pressed against his.

"Other Slytherins, mostly."

That was another of those curious cracks in Adrian's veneer. For somebody who was on the career path to Head of Slytherin House, he didn't seem to care for them. With a flare of that old Gryffindor pride, Angelina could easily understand hating Slytherin. Still, with cozy memories of her own House and the life-long friends she'd made there, Angelina felt sorry for Adrian.

Cocking her head to one side, Angelina asked, "Were you lonely?"

"Sometimes, but I would come up here to meet David and it was like…a clubhouse."

There was a sadness in Adrian's voice when he spoke of his friend. Angelina could remember hearing about David Smythe's death on Potterwatch. She hadn't known the Hufflepuff boy beyond Herbology, but it was shocking to hear a classmate listed amongst the dead. Something else clicked in Angelina's mind. Adrian scoffed at her insinuation that he must have snogged a lot of girls, and he was sneaking off to meet a bloke during school, and he always seemed reserved with her…

"Were you and David a couple?"

Adrian laughed, shaking his head. "We were just friends. I mean, I know how it sounds, but mostly we were just practicing Defense. I wanted to be an Auror, actually, and David was nearly as brilliant as I was."

Angelina looked around, noticing the telltale scorch marks on the walls.

"We were surprisingly alike, David and I," Adrian continued. "Both from privileged families…Honestly, for all my parents taught that blood status was meaningless, David was the first Muggle-born I truly knew."

"You said you wanted to be an Auror, and yet you're a professor," Angelina said. She didn't want to talk about Adrian's dead friend today. Maybe that was a sign that her feelings for this man were shallow, or maybe she was just callous. Or maybe she just didn't want one more person to look to her for strength.

"The Battle of Ministry happened right before graduation," Adrian said with a wry smile. "The Aurors weren't keen to recruit a pureblood Slytherin at the time."

Angelina gaped at him, indignation burning in her chest. "That's not right! If you had the marks, you deserved the chance to prove yourself."

"See, I think that is why I ended up in Slytherin, and not Gryffindor. Where you see injustice, I merely see practicality. I wouldn't have gambled on me if I had been in Head Auror Robard's place."

"Surely they would have taken you after the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Probably, but I think I can do more good here."

"A do-gooder Slytherin?" Angelina scoffed, one eyebrow arched.

"Well, I do get paid quite well, and there is the free room and board."

"Ah, that's more like it."

They smiled at each other for a moment, only to have it robbed when the dog came over and leaned against Adrian's leg. His smile faded as he fingered Merlin's ears mindlessly, completely distracted. It was this room, Angelina thought. She wondered if Adrian had come in here before now, if he thought maybe the pull of memories wouldn't affect him as strongly as they did.

"Tell me about the secret garden," Angelina said.

"It's off the teacher's lounge. Pomona keeps it up, not surprisingly. It's their sanctuary, away from the students." Adrian looked at her, his eyes troubled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought you here."

"Think nothing of it," Angelina said softly, touching his hand where it laid against his thigh. "None of us can really escape it, can we? The war, that is."

He shook his head. "No, I don't mean this room. I mean…I should have never asked you out in the first place. I don't think I've been fair to you."

"I thought you cared more for pragmatism than fairness."

"Not where another's feelings are concerned. I don't think I'd like some bloke treating my sisters the way I've treated you. Of course, they're older than me and would tell me to sod off, but still…"

"Adrian," Angelina said, and shook her head. "Sit down."

He did what he was told, wedging into the windowsill beside her.

"You do realize that you've been nothing but a gentleman, don't you?" Angelina asked. "Frustratingly so, at times."

"I don't want to lead you on, or give you false expectations."

"To be honest, I don't know what I expect so I think we are safe on that count."

Adrian closed his eyes, licking his lips before admitting, "I was in love. With David's younger sister, _Amelia_. I thought I could do this…"

What he meant by _this _was unclear. Maybe he was talking about visiting this room where he had happy memories of his old friend, or maybe he was talking about dating Angelina. She rather thought he meant both. The way Adrian said Amelia's name said everything Angelina needed to know about the depth of his feelings. She didn't feel jealous of this other girl, just immeasurably sad for the man beside her. While she watched, Adrian hung his head trying to regain his composure. Whinging, the dog nuzzled his master's hand.

"Where is Amelia now?" Angelina asked softly.

"Some Muggle university, I imagine. Hopefully doing a better job of getting over me than I am doing getting over her. I'm bloody tired of being brokenhearted."

The words stabbed Angelina in the chest. She knew just what he meant. With the war more than a year behind her, Angelina couldn't even remember when her heart started breaking. Maybe it was when Katie touched that damned necklace and ended up in St. Mungo's. It wasn't all at once, Angelina was sure of that. It was more like somebody had taken a chisel to her heart and chipped away small sections at a time.

Adrian looked at her. "Do you ever feel like you are just playing at being a grownup?"

"Merlin," Angelina sighed. "Yes!"

Every single day. Angelina tried so hard to know what to do for the people she loved, but what if she was wrong? She hadn't even spoken to Alicia since their row. Honestly, Angelina didn't know what to say, but she was also embarrassed. How grown up was that? Then there was George. She'd worried about him the entire time she was away at camp. Was he backsliding? Was he drinking? Did he miss her? Did she bully him too much, just like she had with Alicia? And then there was her childhood dream blown up like a bloody Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-bang. Angelina loved every minute of game time, and hated every minute spent with her teammates off the pitch. Sometimes she just wanted to go back to being one of Oliver's Chasers on the Gryffindor team.

So, here she was. Hiding away with Adrian at Hogwarts on one of her few free days, rather than turning up at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. What kind of person did that make her? How weak, how disloyal, but she was just so tired. Her heart felt too shredded to face Alicia, and her shoulders too sore to bear George's weight. Angelina hated that weakness. And she hated the greediness that craved Adrian's uncomplicated company.

But of course, his company wasn't that uncomplicated, was it?

"Adrian," Angelina said, and touched his face so that he would look at her. "I don't think I'm ready for a relationship any more than you are."

He covered her hand with his.

"I'll be back with the Harpies about the same time the students return to Hogwarts. How about you and I play at being adults together until then."

"Are you sure?"

Angelina proved her certainty with a kiss.


	8. Epiphany: Chapter 5

Author's Note: I borrowed the idea of Ginny getting a a Firebolt from Harry and Ron for her birthday from Keeptheotherone's amazing story _Faintest, Slimmest, Wildest Chance. _Thanks for the inspiration, as always!

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Epiphany: Chapter 5

Stretching languorously, Angelina refused to open her eyes. She wanted just a few more minutes in this heavenly, sated slumber, but the smells of shepherd's pie were tickling her senses awake. That wasn't on her Chaser's diet. She didn't care—after the work out she'd just had, the extra calories wouldn't hurt her.

The room was dark, leaving Angelina a bit disoriented. It had been the middle of the day when she and Adrian had made their way to his dungeon apartments, but she didn't think she had been asleep so long that it was fully night yet. Earlier, she'd been too busy ripping Adrian's clothes off to take a proper look around, just catching glimpses of dark oak and dim lighting on their way to the bedroom. Then it was defined muscle, and pale skin under her darker fingers, followed by release.

Angelina's hunger was beginning to get the better of her.

"Hello."

Yelping, Angelina yanked the sheet over herself.

"Sorry." There was a hint of laughter in Adrian's voice. He pointed his wand at a wall sconce that flared to life. "I thought you might be hungry so I got dinner from the kitchens."

Embarrassingly, Angelina's stomach growled at the mention of food. "Cheers, but maybe the loo first?"

"Of course. Right through there."

When she was finished, and more modestly attired, Angelina joined Adrian in the sitting room where a small table was set in the corner. Trying not to gawp, Angelina took a good look around for the first time. The room was quite opulent. There was a bank of windows that looked into the Black Lake. The vaulted ceiling sported a stained glass dome in jewel tones. Heavy, carved oak framed the windows and doors. Thick, green carpet spread across the room, and the marble fireplace was set inside an intricate black mantle. She noticed a gold clock in the shape of a mermaid sitting on the shelf, noting that it was five o'clock.

"I've never been in more than McGonagall's offices before," Angelina said, trying to downplay her awe of the place. "I had no idea the professor's apartments were so well appointed."

"They aren't," Adrian replied. He stood beside the table with his hands in his pockets, watching her. "Only the Slytherin rooms are this, um, elegant…as I'm sure you can imagine. You should see Slughorn's, makes this place look cramped and shabby. Although, I reckon they'll be mine someday, which is ironic really."

Angelina eyed Adrian for a moment, one brow quirked. "There it is again," she said.

"What?"

"You keep hinting that you hated Slytherin, but you never come out and say it."

"'Hate' is a simplistic word." He leaned his hips against the table, his brow wrinkling. "My feelings towards my House are much more complicated than that, but for most of my school years…yes, I hated it."

"Were you bullied?" Angelina asked. She was burning to know more.

Adrian shrugged. "Not exactly, but mostly because I was savvy enough to negotiate the politics and good enough at dueling that no one wanted to take me on directly." He sighed. "Dinner?"

Angelina knew when a subject was closed, but that didn't mean she wasn't willing to push. She sidled up next to him, snaking one arm around his waist.

"It's not nice to pique my interest, and leave me dangling," she purred.

"It is terribly rude," Adrian agreed, his eyes on her lips, hands on her hips.

He was leaning in for a kiss when Angelina's stomach growled. Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she pressed both hands into her complaining stomach. Still, she couldn't help laughing. This time Adrian joined in, which she was thankful for. Somehow it took the sting out of the embarrassment.

"Eat," Adrian commanded, pulling the chair out for her. "And after dinner, I'll see about making up for that rudeness."

Consuming a Hogwarts meal reminded Angelina of why she'd placed herself on a strict diet in the first place. She couldn't very well Chase with an extra stone weighing her down. When she was finished, Angelina found herself wandering around the room, inspecting photos and generally being a nosy parker. She picked up a photo frame from the console by the windows. It was a Muggle picture of a younger Adrian with David, and a beautiful, blonde girl between them. They looked happy, carefree.

"We became friends because of that idiot, Lockhart," Adrian said, joining her near the windows and taking the photo frame. "He made us partners on that _Wandering With Werewolves_ project."

Angelina laughed. "That awful diorama? Alicia set ours on fire."

"Brilliant. We got pissed and used ours for target practice. It's hard not to be friends after something like that."

"And that is Amelia?" Angelina guessed.

"Yes."

"Why do you keep a picture of your ex-girlfriend in pride of place?" Angelina blurted out. "Surely that can't be healthy."

Adrian looked at her sharply for one instant before the emotion was gone. "It's a photo of two people that I loved dearly, hiding it away doesn't change that."

"But it's a reminder of your heartache."

"Would you tell George Weasley to hide away photos of Fred?"

Angelina opened her mouth, but she was caught completely off guard by the reference to George, and Fred. Of course she wouldn't tell George to hide away his pictures of Fred. In fact, she would probably tell him to display more, but Fred wasn't George's ex, it was completely different. If Adrian wanted to get over his broken heart, he couldn't keep mementos hanging around.

"Don't think you can fix me," Adrian said without heat. "Even if you had that power—and you don't—I have to do it myself."

Something inside of Angelina deflated. Such relief washed over her that it was hard to keep her shoulders from sagging. Her friends, their needs, they weren't burdens, they weren't. But she was glad not to have one more to add to her weight.

Taking the photo from Angelina's hands, Adrian placed it back amongst the others, then adjusted its angle just a fraction. When he turned to Angelina, his full attention was on her. He touched her elbow lightly, letting his fingers glide down her skin until they intertwined with hers.

"Pomona gave me the most amazing smelling bath oils for Christmas," Adrian said, his eyes lingering on her mouth. "I think she rather hoped I would use them to seduce some nice girl."

"Pucey," Angelina scolded, but she leaned into him. "You cannot speak to me about _Professor Sprout_ and expect to get shagged!"

Adrian chuckled.

oOo

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to come talk to me." Ginny was sitting on a blanket under an apple tree cleaning the fancy Firebolt Harry and Ron bought her for her last birthday.

"Why? Have you been speaking to Audrey?"

George sat down beside his little sister. Ginny looked up for a moment, elbowed him hard, then went about her work. Picking a long piece of grass and sticking it between his teeth, George mulled over how to start the whole Luna conversation with his baby sister.

"Brooding isn't going to make talking about sex and Luna any easier, you know," Ginny said.

"I don't brood," George grumbled.

"Well, you aren't an expert like Ron, but you do a fair job of it when you put your mind to it."

"Bloody hell, Ginny, what is this thing with Luna? Did you know…that-that she would…you know."

"It's called sex, George."

He cringed.

"You're maturity astounds me, as always."

George rolled his eyes. He just turned twenty-one, and Ginny wasn't even eighteen yet. Were they just supposed to sit around, talking about sex like they were talking about the weather? He knew she shagged Potter, but that wasn't the same as _knowing_ now was it?

"Ginny," George complained. "Quit being a pain in the arse."

"Look, you have to know that Luna doesn't think about things like the rest of us. Sex to Luna is natural expression of our bodies—quit making that face!"

George knew his face was not only bright red, but scrunched up. "I can't help it."

Ginny growled in disgust. "Luna is leaving for an expedition to South America for two years, it's an incredible opportunity for her to study strange plants and animals. Before she goes—"

"She wants a little slap and tickle?"

"George." She gave him a _look_.

Merlin, not only did Ginny sound like Mum when she said his name, she had Mum's Disapproving Glare down, too. It was disconcerting enough to have this little chat with Ginny without being forcibly reminded of their mother. He could just imagine what Mum would have to say about all of this.

"Alright," George said. "I'll just shut it."

Ginny gave him one more dirty look. "The best way I can explain it is that Luna is looking to do a bit of an experiment. She wants the experience, she wants to find out what she likes, and she wants to do it in a familiar location with somebody she trusts."

No pressure there. George nearly choked on the word _trust_. Since when was he trustworthy? The last he checked, he was an immature wanker with a reputation for loving 'em and leaving 'em.

"And how did I get involved in all of this?" George asked.

"Well, she wasn't kidding about Neville," Ginny said, and rolled her eyes. "Like I said, Luna doesn't see sex—"

"Can you not bloody call it that, please?"

"What? Sex? You mean its proper name? Would you rather I call it 'shagging'?"

"Nope."

"How about 'banging'? Boffing? The ol' rumpy-pumpy?"

"Ginny!"

"Fine! As I was saying, Luna sees _you-know-what_ differently than most people. It's not all about feelings, or at least not exclusively about feelings. She sees _it_ as a natural function of the body. In her mind, Hannah should just loan out Neville for the night because _doing it_ with somebody else shouldn't change the way Neville feels about Hannah."

"I think Luna will feel differently the first time some bloke cheats on her," George said darkly.

"Yeah, I think I agree, but Luna is terribly logical."

George snorted.

"Well, she is, believe it or not," Ginny insisted. "She doesn't understand the irrationality of love because she hasn't experienced it yet."

"And how did I get nominated as the Great Deflowerer?"

"Ha! Maybe we should reconsider Neville after all."

"I'm sure he did his job by Hannah."

Ginny shook her head. "No, I think it was the other way around. You didn't see Neville stand up to the Carrows. Half the girls in the Castle were panting after Longbottom by Christmas. I think Hannah felt she needed to stake her claim."

"This conversation gets more bizarre by the moment. Just…why me?"

George didn't have much use for maturity—he owned a bloody joke shop after all—but this conversation was making him feel like a kid even more than usual. Here was his baby sister having a matter-of-fact chat about all of the sex her friends were having, and George was acting like his twelve-year-old self catching Charlie snogging Tonks. It made George think of Angelina, to be honest. Maybe this was why she couldn't see him as a man?

"Why you?" Ginny repeated. She set the broomstick aside and looked George square in the face. "Luna is determined, but I think she's a bit naïve. For all her lofty ideas about se—er, _it_ being a matter of bodies and not emotions, I'm afraid that she could too easily be hurt and I don't want that. If you decide to take her up on the offer, I think I can count on you to treat her right. I hope you'll make it nice for her, and not just in bed."

George shook his head. "That's a lot of misplaced confidence."

"And I think maybe Luna will be good for you, too."

"So…you're really okay with me having…sex with Luna?"

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure, to be honest. But I think the two of you can help each other, so I'm trying to put my personal revulsion aside. So, you'll give it some thought?"

"Yeah," George agreed. He still had trouble envisioning Luna as somebody he could shag, but maybe he owed it to her to try at the very least.

"Now, scarper. Harry's due around here any minute and I've plans to seduce him."

George shook his head. "You can't tell your big brother that you plan to shag some bloke and expect him to leave you to it. That's against the rules."

"And since when do you care about rules?"

"I care about this one. In fact, I would say I'm bloody passionate about it."

"Well, it's not some bloke, it's Harry."

"Makes no difference."

"I'm serious, George, I'll Bat Bogey you if I must."

"Fine." George got up, but as he walked away, he called over his shoulder, "I'll just tell Mum where to find you, shall I?"

"I've some itching powder and I know where you sleep."

George laughed as he left the orchard.


	9. Epiphany: Chapter 6

Author's Note: This story arc is quickly coming to a close! Only two more chapters after this one. Chapter 8 will mark the end of _Epiphany_, but not the end of George and Angelina's journey towards each other. I hope you are enjoying this installment of their story.

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Epiphany: Chapter 6

George walked out of his bedroom to find Ron sitting solo on the sofa. It was Wednesday, and apparently Hermione had dinner with her parents on Wednesdays. That wasn't to say that George wouldn't find the two of them hot and heavy in the lounge later, but for the moment it was nice to see the wanker's face not attached to Hermione's. For the hell of it, George whacked his ickle brother on the back of the head.

"Oi!" Ron cried, grabbing his noggin. He eyed George resentfully. "Why are you all dressed up?"

George was wearing his best purple robes, with orange silk tie. He'd thought about breaking out the old dragon-hide coat for the occasion, but that was stuffed in the back of his clothes press with its twin, and George didn't feel like digging it out. Anyway, he thought he looked pretty sharp as he tugged on his cuffs.

"I have a date."

"Yeah, with who?"

"Luna."

Ron gawped at George.

George could understand the feeling. He couldn't believe he was taking out Luna Lovegood, he wasn't even sure this was a real date. But he told Ginny he would think the Luna thing over, and he intended to give her his full attention. In fact, he even intended to act mature about the whole thing. So, he had gone around Luna's to have a talk, which was just as peculiar as he expected it to be.

"_Oh, hello. Did you come to have sex with me?" Luna sat cross-legged on her bed with a sketch pad propped on her knee, one colored pencil stuck behind her ear._

_An hour or so after his talk with Ginny, George decided to call on Luna. If he was going to seriously consider her mad proposition, then he needed to have a frank talk with the girl in question. It had taken him thirty minutes to come to that conclusion. It had taken him another thirty minutes to get over the giggles before departing for the rook shaped house._

"_Luna, you're dad is right downstairs," George shushed._

"_I know. Daddy is very respectful of my privacy, he won't eavesdrop."_

"_And how does he feel about you having a boy in your room?"_

"_Neville's been here before."_

_Somehow, George didn't think that counted, but he wasn't going to argue the point. He looked around curiously. There was a mural on one wall of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna. It was quite good actually. The rest of the room looked like a Bohemian child lived there, which George reckoned, was true._

_Sitting down on a huge, squashy pillow, George regarded Luna. "I wanted to tell you that I'm honored that you…asked me to be your first."_

_Luna's face fell. "But you won't do it."_

_For a moment, the dreamy look left Luna's eyes. Panic erupted in George's chest. Holy shite, he broke Luna Lovegood. Yet, for the first time, he got a good look at her. Luna was small and a bit flat chested. She had enormous eyes and straggly, dirty blond hair. Luna wasn't George's type—which was, frankly, Angelina—but she was pretty all the same. _

"_I didn't say that," George said._

"_Oh? Then you will do it? Now?"_

_George laughed and wondered if he threw himself out of the window if he'd break his leg. "I didn't say that either. Bloody hell, Luna, you've a way of tying a man up that is quite unprecedented."_

"_That sounds unpleasant."_

"_The right bloke won't think so. Are you sure you don't want to wait for him?"_

"_No, I would much prefer to be an experienced lover when I meet my soul mate."_

_George shrugged. "Well, why me?"_

"_Because you are attractive."_

"_And that's it?"_

"_What more should there be?"_

"_Love? Warm regard?"_

"_I regard you very warmly."_

_George shook his head, then pushed himself into a standing position. "Come here, Luna."_

_She did as she was told, peering up at him with huge eyes. Taking her chin in hand, George peered down at her mouth. It was a nice, pink mouth, completely devoid of any type of lipstick. Gently, George pressed his lips to hers, feeling something that might be lust, but was more likely relief, when she responded._

"_Would you like to continue this experience?" George whispered._

"_Yes," Luna said at full volume. "I have that swooping feeling in my stomach."_

_George grinned. "That's more like it." Taking a step back, he said, "I'm not promising anything, but would you like to go out sometime?"_

"_On a date?"_

"_Sure. We should do this up right—not that we are necessarily going to do this."_

_Luna's brow furrowed for a moment. "Dating isn't required for us to have sex."_

"_I'll be honest, I'm not sure that I want to have sex with you. I have trouble seeing you as grown up—"_

"_But I am eighteen and my body is fully developed."_

_Looking at her tits, George could debate that, but maybe not now. "That's not the point. I've known you since you were a kid—"_

"_Yes, I've known you since you were a child as well."_

_Was she going to let him finish a sentence?_

"_Just-Let me think about it! In the meantime, I'd like to—I don't know—get to know you better? So, how 'bout dinner?"_

"_Okay."_

_George sighed, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll check my schedule and owl you, alright? And Luna…" George paused by the stairs. "I do know where the clitoris is."_

"_Oh good, it is very important to the female orgasm."_

It took no less than twenty bloody owls to properly set up this date. After consulting his work schedule, George had suggested a day and time, Luna was busy. Doing what, George had no idea. As far as he could tell, Luna's main occupation was making weird soups to feed her father. It took a further three owls to agree on a good day. Another seven owls were required to decide upon an activity. Finally, George informed her that searching for weeds or turnips or whatever was not an acceptable date, and he would be taking her to dinner so she should put on her party dress. This led to a series of back and forths where George offered to come around Luna's to pick her up, and she declined the offer. Finally, they agreed to meet at the Leaky Cauldron at seven o'clock on Wednesday. That morning, George had sent a note to confirm only to have his owl nip his remaining ear, making it bleed. Anybody who thought Luna Lovegood was low maintenance was sorely mistaken.

George wished Ron a good night. "And I don't want to find you bare-arsed, humping your girlfriend in my lounge when I return."

Ron threw something at George, who batted it away with precision.

It was raining, naturally, so George set an Impervious charm around himself for the otherwise delightful stroll through Diagon Alley. He liked the Alley at this time of night. All the shops were closed up for the day, but the café and the Leaky Caldron were open. Shopkeepers milled about, preparing for the next day or enjoying a pint before heading home. There was a quiet sense of community that George had become a part of, and it surprised him how much he appreciated it.

Coming up on the Leaky Caldron, he turned sideways to slip pass the butcher on his way out of the pub and back to his flat. Inside, the dinner rush was still in full swing. George waved at a few folks he knew, looking around for his date. His watch told him it was 7:04, was Luna the punctual type?

"George!"

Craning his neck, George saw Hannah calling to him from the bar. She nodded over to the opposite corner. There, stood by the fireplace, was a vision that rocked George. He'd been expecting, well, Luna! A frock the color of the sun and homemade jewelry and hair that looked like it hadn't been brushed. What he saw was some sleek girl in a turquois party dress, high heels, and a fancy up do. If it weren't for the way she was looking off into the distance dreamily, George wouldn't have believed that girl was Luna Lovegood.

"Luna?"

She looked at him, her enormous eyes lined in kohl. "You said seven o'clock."

"Er, yeah. You…you look…" Not herself at all, that's what George wanted to say, but he didn't. What possessed Luna to become this strange creature? She was beautiful, George couldn't deny that, but not like Luna.

George cleared his throat, and said, "You look beautiful."

It struck George that he should have brought flowers, so he conjured a white rose with his wand and presented it to Luna.

"Thank you," she said and jammed it into her hair, causing a long strand to fall loose and hang at an odd angle from her head.

Well, that was more like it.

"There's a new bistro that opened up near the Ministry, Percy was telling me about it—"

"Oh no," she said vaguely. "There is a terrible Nargle infestation near the Ministry. It's why Percy always seems so uptight."

"You mean it's nothing to do with the stick up his arse?"

"That sounds painful. He should have that looked at."

George chuckled. "C'mon, let's find a Nargle-free venue, shall we?"

As it turned out, all of London was infested with the blighters. Luna rejected every restaurant, eatery, and café within a mile radius of the Leaky Caldron. George's elegant date ended with him carrying a greasy newspaper full of fish and chips through Hartford Gardens, a wizarding park near the massive Muggle one. There were families out reveling in the summer weather, pensioners enjoying an evening stroll, and teenagers snogging in the bushes. Luna wobbled beside him, picking at the food, and humming to herself.

"Luna, what's with the get up?" George asked finally.

"Oh look! There's the fountain. I've never seen it before."

She stumbled forward two paces, then stepped out of the shoes and ran to the gurgling fountain. It was placed where seven pea stone paths converged, surrounded by a quartet of benches, and illuminated by tall street lamps. The Hartford Gardens fountain was famous amongst British wizards for its charm and romance. It was said that a thousand engagements had begun in this very spot, and twice as many first kisses.

Stooping down to pick up the shoes, George thought Angelina would be appalled by them—round toe, clunky heel, scuff marks—definitely atrocious. He shook his head and went to lounge on one of the benches.

"It's lovely," Luna said. She climbed up on the side and walked around the edge with her arms extended for balance.

"What's with the dress, Luna?" George called, popping a chip in his mouth.

She was on the far side of the fountain, but she popped around to answer. "You said to put on my party dress."

"By Merlin, I did."

"Also, I look very grown up."

"Sure, but you also don't look anything like Luna Lovegood."

"I wanted to wear my dirigible plum earrings, but Ginny said they didn't go with the frock. It's a very nice frock. It belonged to my mother."

Luna did a pirouette on the edge. For a girl who had been tottering in her high-heeled shoes, she was incredibly graceful. She extended her arms above her head, as if reaching for the moon, and swayed wildly. George couldn't help but smile, wishing he could hear whatever mad tune was playing inside Luna's head.

Vanishing the newspaper and the last of its contents, George kicked off his shoes. "Dance with me," he cried and jumped into the water. "Eee! That's cold."

Luna dipped a toe in, then warmed the water with her wand. Soon, they were both up to their shins in fountain water, George's trouser legs and Luna's hems soaked. Laughing, George led Luna through a merry country dance, twirling her around until her hair came out of all of its confines.

"Ho, there!"

George had Luna dipped over his arm when the Auror walked up.

"Hey, Nev."

Neville Longbottom closed his eyes. "George."

"Oh, hello, Neville!" Luna said.

"Bloody—Luna?" He gawped for a moment, then, "Wh-what are you two doing?"

"I am trying to seduce George," Luna responded matter-of-factly.

Neville glared at George, who suddenly knew what Nagini must have felt in the moments immediately preceding her death.

"Is it working?" Luna asked, turning her large eyes on George.

"Um…" George yanked on his collar.

Neville took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. "You two can't be in the fountain."

"Are you going to arrest us?" George challenged. "Doesn't the big bad Auror have better things to do?"

"Just…good night!" Neville snapped. "And, George, treat her right or the big bad Auror definitely won't have anything better to do."

Spinning on his heel, Neville stomped away. George couldn't help but notice the pudgy kid who lost his list of passwords was now rather tall and broad shouldered. Grabbing Luna's hand, George pulled her to the edge and sat down.

"I think Neville was angry," she said, her head turned cock-eyed as she gazed up at who-knew-what.

"Eh, he's just protective of you."

"Why? I'm a capable witch."

"He doesn't want me to hurt you."

"Why would he think that? You are very nice."

"Well, I wouldn't do it on purpose, but that doesn't mean it can't happen. It's the same reason I give Harry a hard time."

"That's not very nice of you."

"Luna." George reached out and cupped her cheek, turning her face towards his. "Did you do the make up and the dress for me?"

"You said you had trouble seeing me as grown up. Does this help?"

"I guess, but I think I like this Luna better."

"Which Luna? I'm still the same."

"The Luna whose make-up has run and is barefoot. You're great the way you are."

"Thank you." She gazed up at the sky again. "I can't see the stars."

"Hazard of city life."

"I don't think I would like living in the city."

George smiled. He couldn't imagine Luna living in the city. Even now, sitting on the edge of the fountain in a soaking wet dress, she looked like an exotic bird out of its natural habitat. Luna wasn't meant for manicured and plotted parks, she belonged in the woods with dirty feet and sticks in her hair.

"I've got to ask…" George started. "This—losing your virginity, you're not trying to-to feel grown up, are you?"

"What do you mean? Sex does not make you grown up. Lavender lost her virginity at fourteen, but she was still a child."

"Er—" Good point, and holy shite, Ron's old girlfriend was a precocious one. "Um, well, all of your friends are pairing off with boyfriends and-and stuff…" George thought maybe this was the lamest moment of his life. "I just want to make sure that you aren't…playing catch up."

"Lavender said that she regretted losing her virginity so young, and that it only happened because she was confused by the new feelings in her body. I do not want to make bad decisions. The best way to avoid that is to be informed. I want to understand my body and sex so that I can enter into a sexual relationship with a clear head."

George looked at Luna for a long time. Was he mad, or did what she said make a kind of perfectly logical sense? Not that logic or sense had anything to do with sex, or relationships, in George's experience.

"You know, you can find all of that out without an actual partner, right?" George said.

"Oh yes, but Ginny says that masturbation is not as exciting as sex."

First thing the next day, George was calling a meeting of his brothers, and they were going to lock Ginny in a tower for the next twenty years. They lapsed into silence. George was at least satisfied that Luna was pursuing this for the right reasons. He supposed. He didn't know, to be honest. Sex was either something you had with slags or as an expression of love, George had never really thought of it in the way Luna did. It forced him to reevaluate his way of thinking.

"I was kidnapped," Luna said, quite out of the blue. "I was held prisoner and fought in battles. I think I should feel very grown up, but sometimes I feel like a child still. It's very odd."

And that was Luna. Apropos to nothing, she spoke a truth that George knew all too well, and could never find the words to articulate. He was a businessman who had fought in battles, he knew grief that was murderous in its pain, but he felt like a newborn calf most days. He hardly knew who he was, or how to navigate the world. Some mornings, he just wanted his mother to pat his head and tell him to eat up. All this last year, he thought that he was the only one to feel that way—because of Fred. Because George had to learn how live without his other half and no one else had to do that. Sitting next to Loony Lovegood, George realized they were all fighting their own battles.

Touching her face again, George drew Luna in and kissed her. It was sweet, soft, lingering. Luna melted against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. Affection grew in George, but when Luna slipped her tongue in his mouth, so did lust.

"Does this mean you'll have sex with me?" she asked hopefully after some time.

George laughed. "Let's take it slow."

"I leave for South America in August, so please make up your mind soon."

George found himself smiling and shaking his head. "How about we go searching for rutabagas this weekend?"

"You mean gingersnouts? There's some in the swamp near Lincolnshire. Daddy and I have harvested them…"


	10. Epiphany: Chapter 7

Author's Note: Only one more chapter of Epiphany!

* * *

Epiphany: Chapter 7

After England's match with Italy, Angelina had a few days off to recuperate, and she decided this was a good time to make amends. Putting on the red and gold paisley frock that made her feel pretty and well armored, Angelina set out for the Wash n' Wand, Harold and Sharon Spinnet's Diagon Alley salon. It was tucked into a quiet part of the block next to a florist. Outside the robin's egg blue and red shop was a charming chalkboard inviting the passersby in for a pedicure, written in Alicia's lovely, swirling lettering.

For a moment, Angelina stood on the opposite sidewalk, watching as Alicia saw a customer out the door and charmed a broomstick to sweep up hair from the floor. Alicia had grown up in the salon. When she was small, even before she had her own wand, Alicia used to sweep the floors by hand.

Donning her courage, Angelina stepped off the sidewalk in her new open-toed Espadrilles she'd bought in Italy. Bells tinkled overhead when Angelina opened the shop door. She plastered a smile on, watching as her friend turned. "Hello."

"Hello to you," Alicia replied. For a supposed hairdresser, she always wore her own long hair in a ponytail. "That was a great game at the weekend."

"Cheers. But Italy is rubbish."

"True. Scotland next week though."

"Scotland's rubbish, too."

They both laughed—Scotland the Brave because they always played valiantly and lost anyway—but it was a weak laugh and once it died away, the two women were left staring at one another. It was so important for Angelina to say the words, to put things right, but she didn't know how. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would just begin crying and what good would that do Alicia?

"Don't tell Oliver, though," Alicia said finally.

"Oh, I've already owled him," Angelina replied, grateful for the distraction. "He owes me a Butterbeer once England trounces his arse. And he has to wear a Harpies jersey in public if I score more than five goals on him."

"And if he shuts you out?"

"I have to stand on the bar after the match and sing the Puddlemere fight song."

"_Beat back those Bludgers, boys, and chuck that Quaffle here!"_

They'd both sang it. No prompting needed. It felt like old times when they could read each other's minds as easily off the pitch as on it. Staring at one another, tentative smiles in place, a charged energy in the air, and a bittersweet feeling clogging Angelina's throat.

"C'mon," Alicia said, and extended her hand. "I'll do your nails. They're always a mess after a match."

Leave it to Alicia to know how to fix things. Angelina had come to the salon—too late but better than never—to make up with her friend, only to find comfort in Alicia instead. It was so familiar. Angelina sat down across a narrow table from her best mate.

"I'm sorry," Angelina said, unable to find more adequate words.

Alicia pared back the broken and ragged nails. "I didn't tell you about St. Mungo's because I knew you'd be disappointed."

"I'm such a bitch."

"You're not the only one. I shouldn't have said what I did about you being the lucky one. It wasn't fair, and I didn't mean it."

"Didn't you?" Angelina asked. "It is true. I've lost nothing—what right do I have to tell you how to grieve?"

"What about Fred? What about my parents?"

They stared at each other for a moment.

"You were in and out of this shop every holiday for seven years," Alicia said quietly. "They loved you. Have you let yourself grieve for them?"

"I loved them, too," Angelina whispered. Tears were burning at her eyes.

"Angie, I don't know if I'll ever go back to Healer training," Alicia admitted.

To say the least, Angelina did not like hearing that news. Alicia had worked tirelessly for seven years towards that goal, and Angelina hated seeing her throw all of that away. She hated seeing Alicia wasting away in a life she wasn't meant for. But what could Angelina do? It wasn't her life, or her grief. Angelina couldn't change the past.

Something Adrian said to her clicked into place. Angelina stared at the woman across the table from her, and understood for the first time that she couldn't fix Alicia. As hard as it was, Angelina had to learn to accept things the way they were, not the way she wanted them to be. She had to let Alicia deal with things the way she saw fit, and be there to support her.

There was a relieving sense of freedom in that.

"O-okay." Angelina had to force the word past her teeth. Meekly, she added, "I just want you to do what's right for you."

"Thank you." Alicia squeezed Angelina's fingers. "And I want us to be close again."

Tears rolled down Angelina's cheeks.

"I know I've been a-a mess, but no more coddling me," Alicia continued. "I want us—you, me, and Katie—to be like sisters again. You lot are the only family I have."

Angelina nodded, her voice lost somewhere in her chest.

"Well. Now that's settled, I want to hear all about Pucey. Is he a good shag?"

Angelina cleared her throat. "Shouldn't Katie be here before we start in on my love life?"

"Good point!" Alicia hopped up to scribble a note at the counter, and send it off with the owl. "It'll be a bit before the owl reaches Scotland. Until then, let me tell you about George and Luna Lovegood."

Angelina's eyebrows sprang wide. "Come again?"

oOo

"Hell of a match, Johnson."

"Cheers."

In the visitor's changing rooms of the Scottish Quidditch Fields, Angelina leaned against the sink as she applied her lipstick. Red, the color of the red rose of England that was emblazoned on her jersey, and today it was the color of victory over the Scottish thistle. The game had gone just as Angelina had predicted. Scotland played nobly, taking England right up to the moment the Snitch was caught, only to lose. The icing on the cake was that Angelina scored no less than seven of the ten goals on Scotland's Keeper, Oliver Wood.

Of course, nobody knew how to score on Oliver like Angelina did—except maybe Katie. Blotting her lips on a piece of toilet paper, Angelina checked herself one more time in the mirror, then went to collect her kit bag. She was almost concerned about Oliver. In all of the years they played together, she had never gotten the Quaffle past him that many times in one session. Even the few times they'd met as professionals, he rarely let that many Quaffles in. Still, a win was a win, and Oliver had to pay up on their side wager.

In the corridor, Angelina spotted Katie with a group of older women outside the Scotland changing room. Katie had confided in Angelina once that she was the youngest spouse amongst the Puddlemere family, and it would appear that was true of the national team as well. When Katie saw Angelina, she excused herself and made a beeline for her friend.

"Great game!" Katie said with a bright smile.

"Cheers. How's Ollie—drowning himself in the showers?" Angelina replied, one eyebrow cocked.

"Pfft! He's grown up a bit since then, hasn't he?"

"Seriously, when has he ever let one Chaser score that many times on him? Did Oliver throw the game? That was not the best he could do."

"Shh!" Katie looked around, frowning. "Are you taking the mickey? Oliver is much too competitive for that—as you well know! Or should."

"Was he just having a bad day?"

"Angelina, you scored seven times, and he shut you out sixteen." She lowered her voice before adding, "Scotland has terrible Beaters, is Oliver meant to do it all on his own?"

"Hmph." Angelina crossed her arms over her chest.

"Oh, can you just take your win gracefully?"

"I see Oliver's press—Puddlemere and Scotland think they've found the answer to all that troubles them, but I've played with the man since I was twelve-years-old and I know he's capable of more. Why is he holding back?"

"He's not holding back," Katie denied. "It's just…his heart isn't in it like it was when he was Captain of Gryffindor."

Angelina's eyebrows arched incredulously. "What have you done to Oliver Wood?"

"Nothing!"

"Oh?"

"Do I really need to spell it out for you, Angelina?" Katie pursed her lips. "It's the war and—"

"Katie Wood!" bellowed a deep voice from the door of the Scottish changing room. "You'd better talk your husband down."

Katie groaned. "He's not in the showers, is he?" She shuffled over to the changing room and peered inside. "Ollie?"

"Did you see this t-shirt she gave me?" Oliver's voice boomed into the corridor. "It's three sizes too small! I'm not going out there like this."

"I told you not to accept that bet with Angelina."

With one last dirty look at Angelina, Katie disappeared behind the door. In her defense, Angelina had provided Oliver with the largest Harpies t-shirt in her wardrobe, could she help it that he was so bloody burly? With a smirk, Angelina made her way out of the tunnel. Besides Katie and Oliver, she was meant to meet up with George, Alicia, and Lee at the local pub for a post match drinking session. But the person she saw waiting for her under the grandstands made her smile.

"Professor Pucey," she purred.

Adrian smiled. "Ah, the amazing Chaser Johnson. You were incredible tonight."

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Angelina kissed him. "I'm going out for a drink with the old Gryffindor lot, care to join us?"

"Somehow I don't think I'll be welcome," he replied, hands on her waist.

"Nonsense! Oliver likes you, and the girls are open minded."

"And what about Weasley and Jordan? I'm sure they would rather see me hexed."

"To hell with those two. It's bloody well time for them to grow up."

Adrian shook his head. "You should enjoy yourself, and you'll do a better job of it if you don't have to worry about me." He kissed her, and added, "If you need a place to crash after the pub…Well, I do live in Scotland."

"It might be late."

"I'll drag myself out of bed for you."

With one more kiss, Adrian bid Angelina adieu.

oOo

"Where's he going?"

George had come from the men's loo a few minutes before, only to be smacked in the face by the sight of Adrian Fucking Pucey with his bloody hands all over Angelina. Struck dumb, with hatred burning in his veins, George had just stood there and watched as the two of them exchanged sweet nothings. George wanted to puke. He wanted to hex the arsehole, but it was like he was in a Body Bind Curse. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, all he could do was watch. It was only when the Slytherin bastard finally slinked away that George found the power to confront Angelina.

There she was, within touching distance, and a dangerous light burning in her eyes.

"Home, I imagine," Angelina replied in a clipped voice.

"What's he doing here anyways?" George demanded.

Angelina's eyebrows shot up. "Not that it's any of your business, but he was my guest, just the same as you."

"Funny, I don't recall seeing him in the stands with the rest of your friends."

Her features turned stony for one instant before indignation flared in her eyes again.

"What's it to you where Adrian sat?" Angelina fired back.

Was she taking the piss? She was shagging a Slytherin. She was parading the berk in front of her friends. What did she see in this guy? Could he make her laugh? Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe it only mattered that Adrian Pucey was tall and handsome. Maybe he was making Angelina's toes curl, and George hated that thought.

"Are you ashamed of him?" George leaned in, his mouth twisted, and his eyes narrowed. "Or is it the other way around? Are you his dirty, little half-blood secret?"

Angelina's eyebrows spread wide across her face. For one instant her eyes were large, her lips slack. She looked like she'd been slapped, but only for a moment. Her nostrils flared, her eyebrows gathered like a storm, her fingers curled into her palm. George was in trouble. He knew he was, but he couldn't stop. His stupid mouth had divorced his brain, which was screaming warnings in a voice that sounded remarkably like Fred's.

_Stop! You've pissed her off! Don't say another word, you bloody knob._

"Good enough to screw," George said, motioning towards Angelina's body with his hand. "But not to bring home to mother."

_Well, you've done it now, Forge._

Angelina just stared at George for a moment, then said very quietly, "Sod off."

She turned on her heal, her back straight and her head held high, striding away from George. Panic erupted inside him, wiping away all of his anger and jealousy. What had he just done? He scrambled after Angelina, grabbing her arm.

"Wait! Don't be like that."

Her hand cracked against his cheek with so much force that George instantly released his hold on her and stumbled backwards. He held his burning cheek, blinking at the woman in front of him. Oh Merlin, what had he done?

"Don't be like what?" Angelina snarled. Her chest was heaving, tears sparkling in her eyes.

George stared at her, his hands hanging limply to his sides.

"I don't owe you any explanations," she said, screwing up her face so the tears wouldn't fall. "Adrian is somebody I want in my life right now. If you respected me, you would accept that."

George's heart wanted to burrow out of his chest and fling itself onto the hard ground, but it was trapped in place by his ribcage. It had to go on pumping blood through his miserable body. It had to live in this moment when the hurt he'd caused was plain on Angelina's face.

"Angelina," George said. "I shouldn't have said—"

"Damn right you shouldn't have said anything. Not a thing. You don't get to shame me for my choice of friends. Adrian's good to me, which is more than I can say for you at the moment."

She spun away from him again, walking away as quickly as her long legs would take her. _Do something! _This time George heeded Fred's voice, and ran after her, calling her name. He had to make this right. He had to take the words back. Angelina thrust two fingers into the air, and kept going.

"Please listen to me!"

"What's going on?"

At the gate, Alicia intercepted Angelina. George could see Lee just beyond his girlfriend's shoulder. It was like having the cavalry swoop in to save the day. If anybody could make Angelina see sense, it was Alicia.

"He called me a slag," Angelina ground out.

Alicia's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. Her eyes shifted from Angelina's face, to George's.

"That's—"

_Not the time to argue semantics._

George snapped his mouth shut. He needed to reorder his reasoning.

"I'm sorry," he blurted.

Angelina didn't even look at him. She squared her shoulders, her backbone stiff with outrage, and pushed passed Alicia. George tried to follow, but was stopped by Alicia.

"You have to let her go," Alicia said quietly, hand on George's arm.

"I didn't mean it," he blurted. He looked at Lee, whose brow was furrowed.

"Sometimes that doesn't matter," Alicia said,

"I need to make this right."

"Yes, you do," she agreed. "But not tonight."

"You made her cry, mate," Lee said. "You go near her now and she will kill you."

Angelina was crying. All of the urgency whooshed out of George, and he was left standing in the stadium like a fizzled Whiz-bang. All he could see was the hurt in Angelina's eyes. The hurt he put there. He didn't deserve her. He probably deserved to be alone. He was a small, petty, immature git. The complete package of arseholery.

Bloody hell, what did he do now?

oOo

George pulled a slimy weed out of the swamp, it glowed a metallic, shimmery blue that reminded George of those colored lights he'd seen in Muggle London. Harry called them something like pee-on, and he said it was a gas. Gas was incredibly hard to harness for potion making, although Audrey had done it. That was why George was forever trying to get Percy's girlfriend to come work for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Oi, Luna, what's this called?"

"Nephoso folium," Luna responded. She was about three yards away with her arms in the muck up to her elbows. "It's only found in this swamp and the surrounding areas."

"Do you think I could grow it in a greenhouse?"

Lately George had been considering that it might make more financial sense to grow his own plants for potions rather than buy them, especially rare specimens like this neophoso whatever. He'd been looking at greenhouse space, and researching the number of staff he would need to maintain it. Conjuring a vial, George slid the plant inside and stoppered it.

"You should ask Neville," Luna said dreamily. "He could tell you all about the plant. He would make an excellent manager for your greenhouse."

Judging by the dirty looks Longbottom had been giving George lately, he didn't think he'd be asking the Herbology Auror anything. Everybody was under the assumption that George was shagging Luna, and she had done little to dissuade this notion. The truth was, while George and Luna messed around a bit, they had settled into a kind of comfortable companionship. As it turned out, while Luna might not need a strong emotional attachment for sex, George did. Or he did now, anyways. What he felt for Luna was more like pleasant befuddlement and fond amusement.

George trudged through the mud and the weeds to find the bank and flop down. "I've made an arse of myself," he announced to Luna.

"Oh? Like a Canary Cream? I don't think donkeys are as humorous."

George laughed. That was not a bad idea actually, and Luna was wrong. Donkeys were hilarious.

"No," George said. "I mean I got jealous and said things I regret to Angelina."

"That was very foolish," Luan said.

_Well, exactly!_

George picked at the grass. "How do I make it better?"

"Have you apologized?"

"No."

George couldn't look at Luna, not that she would notice. At the moment, she was utterly immersed in whatever she'd just found in the sandy bottoms of the swamp. The truth was that in the days following their fight, George hadn't been able to muster up the courage to speak to Angelina again. The things he said were really awful, and he hated himself for it. How could he treat somebody he cared about like that? When he'd stumbled into his flat that night, Hermione told him to grow up, and was right, as usual. Merlin, it was hard enough just figuring out who the hell he was, actually being mature seemed a monumental chore.

But Angelina was worth it.

"She cannot forgive you if you do not apologize," Luna said.

George pulled some grass out of the ground. "What if she doesn't?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

The answer seemed obvious to George. He was a complete wanker, wasn't he? After the match, he saw Angelina with Pucey's arms around her, his face on hers, and all George wanted to do was run the git down. From the moment he opened his mouth that night, George knew he would hurt Angelina, but he only cared about winning over Pucey. George was too juvenile to just bloody admit that he fancied Angelina, so he would rather play schoolboy games. George was an immature prick who was more comfortable cracking jokes than dealing with his emotions, but it was more than clear that he was going to have to find the mettle to face Angelina, and soon. Would she actually stop talking to him? Merlin, he didn't want to find out.

Sitting on the edge of a swamp with his legs caked in mud and slimy plants stuffed in his pockets, George had Epiphany No. 3. Fancying Angelina wasn't enough. He was going to have to work on himself before he was somebody that Angelina could love back. This immature half person that he was now wasn't enough for any relationship, but it certainly wasn't enough for a woman like Angelina. He couldn't pursue Angelina until he knew himself better. It was a frightening thought. What if George never knew himself? What if Angelina moved on before he was ready for her? Merlin's beard, this maturity thing was going to be a right bloody drag.

"You look like you stumbled into a Nargle nest."

Luna was standing over George, bent at the waist so she could peer into his face.

"Well, that explains it," George said, and smiled.

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A/N2: See you next week. Please leave a review.


	11. Epiphany: Chapter 8

Author's Note 1: Again, thank you to **Burgundy Hope** for being an amazing beta and friend. This chapter ends the Epiphany Cycle. I don't know when there will be another chapter for George and Angelina, but I should have some one-shots coming up in the next few weeks. Thank you to everybody who has read, reviewed, followed, or favorited this story. I appreciate the support, and always enjoy hearing from readers.

Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to the incomparable JK Rowling.

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Epiphany: Chapter 8

After Luna left for South America (still a virgin, though Ginny was the only one to truly believe that), George sat at Sunday dinner making faces at Teddy and Pax, Charlie's kid who was not really his son, when Percy gave his little brother the perfect excuse to make up with Angelina. They were all dining in the garden, enjoying the last of the summer sun. Just as Ron was tucking in for thirds, Percy stood up, puffed out his scrawny chest, and clinked his fork against his glass.

"If I could have everyone's attention," Percy said, the crowd around him quieting down. "I have an announcement."

"Obviously," Ron muttered.

"Yes, well, I am pleased to say that Audrey has agreed to marry me."

A collective squeal rendered every person within a five-mile radius deaf, but all George noticed was Percy's dopey smile as he gazed down at Audrey. It was gooey and emotional and George was completely envious. Percy, for all his faults, really loved Audrey, and was better for it.

"And," Audrey added with a big grin, "we'd like to have the wedding here, in about a month."

"A month?" Mum screeched, turning narrowed eyes on her third son. "Percival Ignatius, did you get that girl pregnant?"

"Wh-what?" Percy sputtered. His face went from pleasantly pink to apoplectically red in an instant. "Of course not!"

"Then why the hurry?" Mum continued, properly reaching her stride. "A month is hardly time to plan a proper wedding. And what will people say?"

George was filled with glee as he watched his elder brother get flayed by their mother. It was jolly good entertainment. Besides, he was going to need a date for this hastily thrown together do, and George knew just who he would ask.

oOo

"This is it?"

Angelina was facing the bedroom window, watching a pair of grindylow chase each other through the waters of the Black Lake, but when Adrian spoke, she rolled over to face him. He was appallingly handsome first thing in the morning. No pillow creases marked his face, and his black hair only stood in one or two odd angles, but his hazel eyes were still sleepily half-mast and his mouth a bit puffy and red and utterly kissable. It wasn't fair that a man should wake up looking that shaggable.

"It is, I'm afraid," Angelina agreed.

It was the morning of August 31. The next day, students would be arriving at Hogwarts ready for a new school year, and this thing that Angelina had been conducting with Adrian would be over. They'd agreed to the summer, nothing more, and now their time had come to an end. Angelina was feeling rather bittersweet about it, to be honest.

"This has been good, hasn't it?" Adrian said.

"It has." Angelina grinned slyly, wagging her eyebrows at him.

Adrian grabbed her by the hips and pulled her close. "Not _this_, wench."

Angelina chuckled. "Well, it _has_."

"I'm willing to concede that, but it's not what I meant."

"You're not going to get sentimental on me, are you?"

Adrian shook his head. "What now, Chaser Johnson?"

Affecting a playful pout to hide her very real contemplation, Angelina gave his question the proper consideration. It was back to her life, she supposed. Adrian had given her a safe place away from her cares and concerns, and she realized now that she'd needed it, but it was time to return to the real world.

"A Championship year, hopefully," Angelina replied.

Adrian shook his head. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But I hope you'll think of me fondly from time to time."

"Oh, I will." A small smile came to Angelina's face. "Particularly a few weeks from now when I'm randy and need a good shag."

"You're welcome to owl me, but I don't think you will."

He was right. They both needed a good, clean break. Angelina doubted they'd ever call on one another again. In the years to come, they would just be two people who nodded at one another as they passed in Diagon Alley. That didn't make Adrian's place in her life any less important though.

"And what about you?" Angelina asked. "What's in store for you, Professor?"

Adrian shrugged one shoulder. "Classes, mostly."

"Touché." Angelina rolled her eyes, realizing that her flippant reply deserved recompense.

"Thank you," Adrian said. "For a hell of a summer."

Angelina pressed her body to her lover's. "The pleasure was all mine."

oOo

Ginny had come around the shop after her first day of training with the Harpies full of enthusiasm. Apparently, Puddlemere poached Chaser Wilda Griffiths. What might be bad news for the Harpies, was good news for Ginny who seemed confident that she could work her way onto the starting roster. Where she would play alongside Angelina. As happy as George was for his sister, his mind made the immediate link with Angie, and maybe that was why he finally found the courage to apologize. He'd left Ron to close up shop (did the wanker think he would just live rent free?), cleaned up a bit (sure, those were his best jeans and a button down, that didn't mean he was trying to impress her, or anything), and went around Angelina's in hopes that she would be home (please let her be home).

After knocking, George stood outside the door, smoothing his hair down with his hand. He'd cut it short again a few months after Fred died. It had been Fred's idea for them to grow it out, to make their differences less obvious. George, however, preferred the ease of short hair, and he was less bothered by his earlessness than one might expect. Besides, he no longer had anybody to match.

Just about the time George was going to give up hope, the red lacquered door swung open. There stood the private Angelina, the one even George didn't often see. Her hair was pulled back, her face scrubbed clean. Instead of looking like a fashion plate, Angelina wore jeans and a Harpies t-shirt, her posh shoes traded in for house slippers. It was a sight George thought he could get used to.

"Hey," he said, and did his best not to cringe. He hadn't seen her since bloody Scotland, and that was the best he could do?

"Hey," she replied, and wiped her fingers under her eyes.

"Long time no see."

"Whose fault is that?"

There was a flatness to Angelina's words that George didn't like. If she yelled at him, then at least he would know where he stood with her. That low-key, almost emotionless tone left George feeling wrong-footed. Angelina wandered into the flat, leaving the door open. It wasn't an invitation, more like she was putting the Quaffle in George's hands. Still it was his move, and George wasn't going to muff it. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," George blurted out. He thought it might be best to get that out and over with as quickly as possible.

"That was nearly a month ago," Angelina said. "What's taken you so long?"

"I was afraid you would hex me," George said.

That was true, technically, but only a small part of it. He didn't want to admit that he was a coward. For all of the schemes he came up with to win Angelina's forgiveness—and there had been some grand ones—he didn't want to face her. What if she didn't forgive him? What if he lost her because he'd opened up his big fat mouth? Those were prospects George didn't want to face, so instead of being a man and owning his mistakes, he'd sat in his flat dreaming up ways to whitewash his shortcomings.

"What I said," George started. He took a deep breath, stealing a look at Angelina to see that she was waiting for him to continue. "I was out of line."

"You made me feel dirty and low." Her voice was quiet, but gritty.

It was like she slapped him again. He might still be trying to figure himself out, but he knew he didn't want to be the kind of person who treated people the way he treated Angelina that night. Blinking rapidly, he forced himself to look Angelina in the eye.

"I'm sorry. I'll do better."

Angelina nodded her head once. "I'm sorry I slapped you. But, George, our friendship doesn't give you the right to choose my boyfriends for me."

"I know." That didn't mean he had to like it. "Are you still with Pucey?"

"No, we went our separate ways."

"Just like that? What did the git do?"

Angelina's eyebrows were angry. "Not that it's any of your business, but we agreed to end things once school started up again. We parted as friends."

"That sounds very…adult."

"Unlike shagging your baby sister's best mate," Angelina snapped.

In the space of one sentence, George went from wrong-footed to hopeful. He tamped down the fizzy giddiness that was bubbling up in his chest. Angelina Johnson was jealous. Of him. This right here, it was promising.

_Play it cool, Forge._

"Jealous?" George smirked.

Angelina pursed her lips. "I told you, I'm not interested in a lousy shag. Butterbeer?"

George thought it was a good sign that Angelina was offering him refreshment. She went into her small kitchen, while George flung himself onto her sofa. Angelina liked red, and that was reflected in her crimson, velvet sofa. There were even yellow pillows with big red flowers blooming across them. Very posh, and very Gryffindor. It was like the common room got a makeover.

"So you know, I didn't shag Luna," George called out.

"You are welcome to shag anybody you like," Angelina retorted. Her words might be indifferent, but her voice held a note of growl in it.

George grinned to himself. This Angelina he could deal with. There was always something a bit exciting about an edgy Angelina. When he was a kid, George had liked to goad her into popping because he never knew what to expect. Would she yell? Would she hex him? The possibilities were endless, one more exciting than the next. Now, he realized, what he really liked to see was the passion that was gurgling just under the surface of anger.

On the glass coffee table, George noticed a framed photo laying face down. When he picked it up, he saw that it was the picture of the lot of them at the Yule Ball, the one they had found in Fred's room at the start of the summer. Angelina had put it in a simple black frame, their youthful smiles radiating from its confines. This was such a girl thing to do. All of the other photos were still a jumbled up pile in their box. It had never occurred to George to do something this nice.

"Here you go," Angelina said as she walked in with two Butterbeer bottles.

"This is really nice," George said, holding up the photo.

Angelina's features froze, then moved into a slight frown. "Oh. Cheers. I'll just…put that…up."

Snatching the frame from George's hands, she moved to the hearth and set the photo in pride of place amongst a silver vase and some candlesticks on the mantle. Angelina's back was to George, but he watched as she fussed with the frame for a moment. Her perfect posture was even more rigid than normal. It was as if someone had rammed a board against her spine.

"Angelina?"

George got up from the sofa with great care. He'd said her name, but got no response in return. Instead, Angelina stood at the mantle, unmoving, her hand clenched around the wood. Vulnerability radiated off of her, George could feel it prickle his skin. Like the hum of magic, it was almost imperceptible, except that George knew all too well what that kind of rawness felt like. He'd glimpsed this side of Angelina a few times before. The day Katie was cursed, or the night Alicia's family were murdered came to mind. There were other instances, too, ones that didn't leave as much of an impression. All of them had been short-lived. One moment, Angelina was an open wound, but in the next she would be steel-clad. Merlin, how George had admired that strength, but he'd never considered that maybe he was taking it for granted.

Touching her shoulder, George said her name again softly.

Angelina brushed a tear away. "I was looking at the photo earlier, before you got here."

"Does it make me a terrible person to say that I hated him a bit?" George admitted. "For having the bollocks to ask you to the Ball when I didn't?"

"I won't judge you," Angelina said, keeping her back to him. "If you don't judge me for saying I hated him a bit afterwards."

"I'm sorry I believed him when he said those things about you. I know it's a few years too late…I should have known better. No one could detect Fred's bullshite like I could."

"Why did he do it?"

George shrugged, even though Angelina wasn't looking at him to see it. He wished he could defend Fred somehow. Maybe claim that Fred wanted to make sure George stayed focused on their plans for the joke shop rather than getting caught up in a girl. There might be an element of truth in that. Fred certainly knew better than anyone George's feelings for Angelina. The truth was harsher than that though. Just like Fred knew George, George knew his twin. Fred told those lies because he was an absolute bloody effing git, and a teenage boy to boot. He told those lies so that George and Lee would think he was cool, and Fred never took the time to consider how that might impact Angelina.

"Because," George started, and blew out a breath. "Well, because he was an arsehole. It was something we had in common."

Angelina closed her eyes. She took a few deep breaths through her nose. Her shoulder under George's hand was so stiff he could have broken tree trunks over it.

"Angie?" George whispered.

She shook her head, tears escaping from under her eyelashes. "He was such a prat."

"Hey."

George turned Angelina so that she was facing him. Her eyes were still closed, but the tears were slipping down her face fast and furious. Harshly, she swiped at them with her hand, like if George didn't see them it would make none of this happen. She took another deep breath through her nose, but then her mouth parted and it snuck tremulously passed her lips.

Every fiber of Angelina's being was trying so hard to keep her shell from cracking that she was nearly vibrating with the effort it took. The beauty of it, the loneliness of it, left George in awe. All this last year, George had wallowed in his grief, depending on Angie's strength to bolster his own. Had it taken this much effort for her to present that strength to him every time?

Epiphany No. 4 hit George like a rock between the eyes. Angelina's beauty didn't come from her strength. It came from the vulnerability the strength masked.

George folded her into his arms. "It's okay," he murmured against her ear.

The cry that escaped from Angelina was like a wounded animal being freed from a vice. It was ragged, fierce, and relieved. Her arms cinched around his ribs, her face against his shoulder, and George was thankful for their breadth. Grateful, too, for the strength of his arms as they held her, feeling the sobs shake her body and the tension leave it so that in the end she lay quietly against him, her shoulders curled towards him and her weight against his.

"I just miss him," Angelina rasped.

"I know the feeling."

Angelina sniffed a few times, and pushed away. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" George asked.

Her face was shiny and stark with her tears. "I didn't mean to put this on you. Of course you miss Fr-Fred. Much more than I ever could."

"Less, more, who cares? You loved him, right? Despite his prattish tendencies."

Angelina bit her bottom lip. Merlin, George had never seen her do that before, and he thought under different circumstances it might drive him mad. Really, it was just a sign that George needed to see more of this Angelina.

"You don't always have to be strong for me," George said.

Angelina looked away.

"I know, I'm a mess—"

"No!" Angelina looked at him, her cheeks slightly pink. "Do you know how strong you are?"

"Let's not wax poetic about my ability to muddle through. It's embarrassing, and it doesn't make me any less of a mess. You know that better than anybody."

"I know Fred couldn't have done what you've done this last year."

George shrugged. There might be some truth to that. When George lost his ear, he'd once jokingly referred to it as the Great Untwinning, and Fred had gone mental. All George wanted to do was make the best of a bloody miserable situation, but Fred wanted no part of his jokes. In hindsight, George thought maybe Fred's identity was even more tied up in their twinness than George's was.

"We'll never have to know, will we?" George cleared his throat. "It made me feel good being strong for you. That's probably a horribly sexist thing to say."

Angelina laughed a little. "George, that's because you're a horrible sexist."

"I am, aren't I? Why do you put up with me?"

"I've no idea." Angelina smiled softly at him, then reached up to touch the side of his head right above where his ear should be but wasn't. They both froze, staring at each other. Her eyes were wide in horror, but George thought maybe he didn't mind Angelina touching him there.

"I like this side of you," George said, he placed his hand over hers, flattening it against his head. "I don't want you to be afraid to show it to me because…because you're my best mate."

Angelina's eyes hid shyly behind her lashes. "It's hard for me to be this…this weak in front of other people."

"You got it all wrong."

Their eyes met. The breath stilled in George's lungs, time was something that existed outside of this place. Angelina was looking at him with gratitude and understanding in her eyes, emotions that echoed inside of George. If Angelina could look at him that way, maybe George had a chance. He wanted to hang onto this moment forever, so he tucked it into his heart as a reminder that this was the first step on his journey to being a better man.

Although, probably not a very mature one.

"My brother's getting married," he announced, letting Angelina step away from him.

"Oh, did Charlie settle on a nice Welsh Green then? Or something more exotic like a Chinese Fireball?"

George laughed. "No, Percy, you Harpy. He finally popped the question."

"About time."

"True, and Audrey was mental enough to say yes."

"Be nice," Angelina chided. "They're good together."

"The date is set for two weeks from now."

Angelina's brow furrowed. "Is she pregnant?"

"He says no, but only time will tell, I reckon. Anyway, I need a hot date for my brother's wedding."

"Did you want me to set you up? How about Gwenog? She was good enough for Fred."

George felt the tip of his ear turn red. "You knew about that?"

"Gwenog Jones is definitely the kiss and tell type. Or shag and tell, as the case might be. Though 'shag' is much too delicate a word to describe that encounter."

Laughter bubbled out of George at full force. Someday, he was going to kiss that woman, but not today. Merlin's balls, the only thing hotter than Angelina was Angelina cracking jokes.

"Did you have something you wanted to ask me, Georgie?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Be my date?"

"Absolutely. Trying to guess how far along the bride is has become my favorite new parlor game."

"I'll show you a good time."

George was just wondering if Fleur would give him dancing lessons, when Angelina hugged him.

"I know you will," she said. "Have you had dinner? I was just thinking about getting some Indian. Training was brutal."

"Ginny said as much. And Indian sounds great."

"I love having Ginny on the team," Angelina said. She moved to her desk to send an owl to the Indian place down the way. "Already I feel a camaraderie with her that I've been missing since…since I played with Katie and Alicia, honestly."

"Gin thinks she'll make first string." George tossed some pillows on the floor and sat on the sofa.

The owl flew out the window and Angelina picked up the pillows. "I hate it when you do this."

"What's the point of them anyways? They're always in the way."

Angelina opened her mouth, but smiled instead. "Never mind, Georgie, you wouldn't understand."

She tossed the pillows into the chair, and plopped next to George on the sofa. Careful not to actually look at Angelina, George draped his arm across the back cushions. Was that too obvious? He held very still, waiting to see what Angelina would do next.

_Pathetic._

It was true, George was pathetic, he didn't need his brother's disembodied voice to tell him that. His body was tight, his fist was spasmodically clenching and unclenching. He wanted Angelina to lean against him, to know the weight of her, the scent of her, even in a platonic way. And he hoped to hell that she didn't notice.

Then it happened. Angelina's head was on George's shoulder, her back resting against his chest. She smelled like soap.

_Don't bloody mess this up, wanker._

But George didn't need to be told. He kept his arm safely on the back of the sofa, suppressed his shit-eating-grin, and just enjoyed having Angelina near. The way she smiled, the way her hands moved as she talked about Quidditch. A new feeling settled over George, something he could only describe as _rightness_. For a moment, George's heart tightened with betrayal. Nothing in his life should feel right without Fred.

His twin's voice remained stubbornly silent on this account. George would hate it if anybody else presumed to speak for Fred, but the two of them had been more than brothers. For twenty years, their thoughts had been perfectly synced. Fred didn't need to give his permission for George to know that his twin would want him to have a good life. After all, it's what George would have wanted for Fred if the roles were reversed.

With that thought, George let himself sink into the moment with Angelina. He let himself hope for more.

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A/N2: Thank you for reading. Please leave a review!


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